


Breathe Again

by When_Tommy_Met_Alfie



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Disordered Eating, Force-Feeding, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slurs, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2020-12-16 08:36:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 96,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21033365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie/pseuds/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie
Summary: Post season 5After the field, there’s nothing left to do. Except try to pick up all the broken the pieces. But it seems like no one can do it.Somehow, Tommy might still end up right where he needs to be.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A story requested by no one, that I still needed up writing in an absolute frenzy. It'll be a multi chaptered thing, and this is a prologue of sorts. Which is why it's quite different from my normal stuff and not in a particular POV. I really hope you'll like it <3

A car drives up the gravel path leading to Arrow house, cutting through the evening fog, the sound of the engine humming drifting across the lawn. It comes to a halt in front of the large building looming over the grounds. Only a few of the windows are lit, making the entire structure seem bigger, like nothing but a massive shadow. 

Michael climbs out first and goes around to open the door for Gina, who makes a grimace when she sets her high heels down on the damp gravel

“This better be worth the drive,” she says and lights a cigarette, shuddering in the chilly air. Michael doesn’t respond, too focused on the building in front of him. He gazes at the windows, eyes drawn to the ones with a bit of light, and to that particular window on the second floor. He thinks he sees a figure behind the curtains. The room is dimly lit, and there’s only a small opening between the heavy folds of fabric. So the figure standing there could be a figment of his imagination. Must be, considering which room it is… 

“You coming darling?” Gina asks while letting out a puff of smoke. It adds to the milky fog. As if the entire garden is full of cigarette smoke. Michael offers his arm to her and they walk up towards the front door.

…..

“-that you have the fucking guts to even suggest shit like this!” Arthur’s voice booms through the room. Seems to echo throughout the entire house. “It’s beyond me. It’s just fucking beyond me-“ 

Gina rolls her eyes. Michael squares his jaw.

They’re all seated in the living room, a failed attempt at bringing some sense of normality to the situation. Despite the lit fireplace, the atmosphere couldn’t be colder. Finn glares from where he’s positioned in the green velvet sofa, and Ada puts a hand on his shoulder when he shifts in his seat. Michael and Gina occupy the sofa opposite them and Arthur has folded his lanky frame into a leather armchair next to the small table housing the cannister of whisky. That cannister just came dangerously close to being hurled across the room.

“I think we should at least wait for Lizzie,” Ada says, with a cold look in Michael’s direction, before turning her attention to her older brother. “Arthur-“

“No, don’t use that fucking voice on me!” Arthur hisses and staggers to his feet. “Fuck, don’t you bloody dare try making this sound like _I’m _being unreasonable!” His face is already flushed from one too many glasses of whisky drunken too quickly. He stabs a finger in Michael’s direction. “You- the- the fucking nerve to talk about this when Tommy is-“

“That’s the entire reason we have to talk about this,” Michael says calmly. “And unless you’ve spent the past month secretly working on some brilliant plan, I suggest you let me finish.” His gaze sweeps across the room but no one meets it. “You all must’ve realised we would talk about this. Why else would we have a meeting?”

His eyes finally land on Arthur, and Arthur’s hands clench into fist where they hang by his sides, knuckles whitening. His nostrils flare and twitch. Ada grows tense in her seat, muscles coiling in preparation.

Michael and Arthur stare at each other for a moment that seems to stretch on forever.

The door opening is what breaks the tension, and the occupants of the room turn their attention to the newcomer. Gina gazes at a painting, exhaling yet another cloud of smoke.

Lizzie enters the room, impeccably dressed in a forest green gown that drapes in soft folds across her shoulders, hair shaped into elegant waves. The only cracks in the façade are the faint dark circles under her eyes and the way her jaw is set a bit too tight.

Michael raises both eyebrows and cranes his neck to glance down the empty corridor before she closes the door, leaving a small opening.

Lizzie gives him a look, but doesn’t comment on the obvious question on his face.

“I see you’ve already helped yourself to the whisky,” she says and lights a cigarette, going to sit in the second leather armchair opposite Arthur, who has returned to his seat.

The air fills with tense silence. Because there’s nothing and somehow far too much to say at once…

Arthur finally clears his throat and speaks: “Is he…” but he lets the sentence die after just those two words, trailing into the tense silence again. Lizzie shakes her head.

“No change I assume?” Michael says and earns himself steely look.

“So much for the drive out here,” Gina scoffs.

Arthur’s anger seems to almost physically swell throughout the room, pushing all the air out. But all he does is refill his whisky glass.

“Well, in that case…” Michael stands. Uses that voice that tells the entire room the meeting has started. “Lizzie, since Arthur wouldn’t leave it alone we did start talking before you arrived, even though I made it clear we should wait. But I think we all know why we’re here.” He looks around the room and only catches Arthur and Ada’s gazes. Finn and Lizzie are busy staring at anything but him; Finn’s eyes nervously flickering, Lizzie’s gaze stiffly straight ahead. “Due to the current circumstances, it’s clear that we need to make decisions and take measures to ensure not only the continued success but the continued existence of Shelby Company Limited.” He pauses. “I think we were all hoping things would be different now. But since they aren’t, I propose that we revisit the suggestion I presented a month ago. I’m willing to take on the role as head of the company, which will ensure a way into the American market. And overall just some general fucking stability that this company has lacked for some time.”

Arthur flies up from his chair again and Michael fails to hide a flinch at the sudden move. With a sharp outlet of air he goes to pace in front of the window.

“And why the fuck should _you _take on that role?” Finn asks. “Isn’t this room full of people with just as much right to that position?”

“Well, not really,” Gina smirks. “All I see here is a commie sister who a few years ago cut all ties to the family, only to crawl back when she realised life without money is hard.” Ada’s eyes have turned a shade darker. Gina looks to Arthur, undeterred, “A brother who can’t even keep his own wife in line, and…” she pauses when she comes to Lizzie and smiles. “A… secretary and grieving wife who probably has enough on her mind-“

Ada’s hand clenches around the armrest on the sofa, but Lizzie is the one who cuts Gina off.

“Thank you Gina for that insightful comment. But I think I’m quite capable of handling a multitude of things at once.”

The corner of Gina’s mouth twitches. “You can’t seriously mean that you would have any kind of claim-“

“Well, as Tommy’s wife and member of the board I do think I should have some say in the matter.”

Gina snaps her mouth shut around her reply when Michael puts his hand up.

“You do have some say, of course, Lizzie,” he says. “As member of the board. But that doesn’t change the fact that I have the contacts in America, which is now our biggest and most promising market.” He slowly walks to stand behind Gina, hands coming to rest on the back of the sofa. “And I suppose I might’s well be fucking clear about this: who else in this room is honestly prepared to step up and take on this role, eh?”

The silence is stifling and thick. Cold. As if the fog around the house has seeped in through the windows and filled the room.

“What about you Arthur?” Michael asks. “Are you prepared to take on that responsibility? To have the whole fucking company resting on your shoulders?” Arthur looks out the window and Michael splays his arms out wide. “Anyone?”

“Aunt Polly-“ Finn starts weakly.

“Has made it very clear she wants nothing to do with this company or, fucking hell, this family again, after what happened to Aberama,” Michael cuts him off. “However I’m hopeful that with these changes, she might reconsider and-“

Lizzie suddenly turns to the door, eyebrows furrowed as she cranes her neck to catch a glimpse of the corridor outside.

Everyone watches as she furrows her brow and listens. Then she sinks back into the chair again.

“Thought I heard…” she trails off and shakes her head.

Michael speaks up again, “Nothing will be decided here and now. We’ll of course vote with the entire board. This is to give you some time to think. To make sure that we as a family are united.”

Arthur scoffs at that. But no one speaks, because what is there to say? 

Gina gives Michael a look and he clears his throat. “Now, to the second order of business. I think we have to start seeing things more clearly. Stop just putting out fires and think of the future, not only for the company but… the situation as a whole.”

Arthur turns from the window and comes closer. He picks up his whiskey glass and refills it. Lizzie sits up a bit straighter in her chair.

“We gathered here because we were hoping that perhaps Tommy’s condition would’ve improved,” Michael says. “That maybe he could join us. But it hasn’t. And I think we must face the possibility that it never will.”

Ada sighs. “We already have. Isn’t that why you _just _fucking proposed that you’d be put in charge? Or have I gravely fucking misunderstood something?”

“I’m talking about getting professional help,” Michael replies. “I’m talking about seeing things as they are: That he’s a danger to himself, and quite possibly others. And that maybe he should be institutionalized.”

Moments pass after he’s uttered the words. Long moments where everyone grapples to just understand them.   
  
“An asylum?” Arthur finally breathes out and takes a step closer to Michael, voice trembling when he speaks, “You’re talking, about a fucking asylum?”

“Oh, don’t be so fucking dramatic, “Gina says. “He barely even knows where he is. Might’s well lie in a different bed staring at ghosts. Someplace where people actually know how to handle it.” 

Ada drags Finn back onto the sofa, and Arthur’s eyes widen to impossible size, dark with fury.

“Arthur, I know this is not something you want to hear,” Michael says. “But you have to consider the possibility that… that he’s gone. It’s not about the injury anymore. The damage is inside his head, and it’s been there for a long time. That bullet was just a scratch compared to it.” He holds up his hands in a placating gesture as he takes a breath and continues: “An asylum doesn’t have to mean simply being locked in a cell. There are new treatments, things they do in America-“  
  
“Oh, things they do in America, eh?!” Arthur bellows. “Things they fucking do in America? Is that what she’s told you?” he points to Gina with a trembling hand. “That they’ve got some new revolutionary method- something that’s gonna make it fucking okay to- to even fucking _consider _locking Tommy up in a place like that-“

“There’s a fucking reason those places exist,” Michael snaps, finally raising his voice as a red flush creeps up his neck. “And you know what kind of people they put in there? Hm, Arthur? People who hear and see things that aren’t there. People who have lost all fucking grip on reality. Who can’t take care of themselves-“

A glass smashes into a bookshelf when Arthur throws it in Michael’s direction but misses with about a mile. A rain of splinters skitter across the floor.

“Face it Arthur,” Michael shouts. “He’s not coming back. If you took your head out of your arse for even a second you’d see that-“

“Stop it!” Finn’s shout shocks the entire room into silence and even Michael falters. Staring down at his lap, Finn takes a harsh breath in through his nose.

“Tommy might be- he might not be… how he used to be. But he’s still part of this family and we- we can’t just send him away-“ his hands are shaking. Ada puts an arm around him, and for the first time in years he accept the comfort like he did when he was just a kid hiding outside the door when meetings like this went down. He leans into her side.

“We’re not sending anyone away,” she says softly, but her eyes are nothing but cold steel when she looks to her cousin. “Michael can’t do that. It’s not up to him.”

“No, it’s up to Lizzie,” Gina says simply. “If she wants to spend the rest of her life looking after a catatonic shell, fine. But you might want to consider the fact that he could decide to try again, and that he might succeed.” Lizzie’s mouth is a tight line when Gina looks at her and quirks an eyebrow, before facing the Shelby siblings again. “So maybe the question is if you’d rather have an alive brother getting the care he obviously desperately needs, or a dead one.”

Now even Ada is out of her chair and Michael steps in front of Gina when Arthur comes towards them

But right then the door opens fully and Frances is standing there. 

“I’m sorry to disturb you Mrs. Shelby,” she says and nervously twists her hands.

Lizzie pinches the bridge of her nose. “What is it Frances?”

“I just wanted to see if Mr. Shelby had joined you,” she says and glances around the room. Lizzie sighs.

“No, as you can see he hasn’t.”

“Well, it’s just that his room is empty and I thought-”

“Try the bathroom.“

“It’s empty, and I’ve checked the children’s rooms and-“

Lizzie’s face has gone completely white when she gets out of her chair and breathes out, “Check the roof.”

Frances is out the door in moments and when her steps disappear down the hallway, it’s apparent that she’s running. Lizzie turns back to the family. They seem at a loss. Always at a loss these days.

“Arthur, you take Finn and start searching the grounds. Ada, get a hold of Johnny dogs. Tell him to bring some people get those out looking too-“

She gives orders with ease and they all follow them, rushing out of the room one by one to carry them out.

“And you,” she turns to Gina and Michael. “You can leave.”

“We’ll stay and help searching of course,” Michael says. “Make sure you find him. We wouldn’t want something to happen-“

Lizzie goes to stand only inches away from him and spits, “You might already have this company in the palm of your fucking hand, but this is my house. Get out.”

Then she turns on her heal and hurries down the corridor. She heads for the roof.

....

The first rays of sunlight peak over the horizon, casting light over a calm sea and slowly burning away the mist billowing over the dark waters. Today is one of those rare mornings when the sea is completely calm, making the beach uncharacteristically silent. And in the silence, there’s a knock on a door. A door that just so happens to be situated on a house right close to that calm sea.

So even though it only results in one quiet rap, it still rings loudly in the silence.

No one opens, because it’s early and no visitors are expected.

Another knock, even more quiet than the first.

The hand falls from the door, faltering along with its owner. Unsteady feet walk away from the door. Unsteady and bare, leaving wet footprints behind. Unable to walk any longer. There’s a soft thump as a body hits the stone flooring, falling into a heap at the foot of the steps leading up to the house.

And the door opens.


	2. The Truth, the Glow, the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie wakes up to find a guest on his doorstep. It throws a wrench into his plan of being dead in peace.

Alfie is none too fucking pleased to be awakened by such a rude thing as knocking. And loud knocking, at that, on his bedroom door. If a man can’t get out of bed in his own fucking time even when he’s dead then what does that say about the state of the world?

”Mister Solomons-” More bloody knocking. ”Sir, I’m sorry to wake you but-”

Alright, Esther keeps fucking talking and he can barely hear it because he’s still half asleep, floating in a blissful kind of deep water and there, far below the surface all the sounds are muffled. But when the godawful knocking just continues, he’s forced to open his eyes and try to reconnect with his body. Always an unpleasant experience. Granted, it’s getting better (which truly is a strange turn of events because who would’ve thought?) and everyday his joints feel a bit less achy- but mornings are still difficult. Not to mention that most mornings half his face feels like it’s somehow stiffened throughout the night, and like he’s wearing some kind of mask made of wax on top of his own, real face.

All in all waking up is an altogether unpleasant experience and it’s not made better by that bloody knocking.

“Alright, alright, fucking hell woman-“ He sits up and rubs his one good eye as the sun pierces through the curtain to add insult to injury. “I’m awake-“

And then the door opens on top of it all. Truly no limits to overstepping boundaries today apparently-

“Bloody hell! Can a man get one moment to make himself fucking decent around here?” he grunts as if his sorry state will somehow shock her. Few things will do that once you’ve had to spend the first months of your employment helping someone in and out of a bathtub. But still, it’s a matter of principle really.

Esther, predictably, is entirely unfazed in that way only a woman closing in on sixty who’s already seen most things the world has to offer, can be.

“I’m sorry, Sir, but this really can’t wait,” she says. “There’s- Well, I don’t quite know how to say this but there’s a… man. Outside.”

Alfie blinks at her.

“A man?”

“Yes. And he appears to be in pretty bad shape-“

This is too much information to take in at this hour and during these circumstances. Unacceptable really. Alfie has half a mind to just lie back down and go back to sleep and see what happens.

“Is he some drifter eh? Some poor sod who’s just wandered off the road and ended up outside my house? Because if so, and not to sound crass here, but if so, then I think that we’ll just leave him be and see if he decides to wander off again, yeah?”

“No, he’s- There’s something wrong. I think he might be injured. Or sick.”

Alfie says a silent prayer for patience, and takes the opportunity to ask his God why he’s decided to gift him with this on this particular morning.

“Right, alright, I’m fucking coming. Just let me get some bloody clothes on first, eh? Reckon a minute or so won’t hurt him.”

With a curt nod, relief washing over her features, Esther leaves the room.

Alfie does get dressed. He just doesn’t do it particularly fast. So when Esther’s steps approach in the corridor outside, he’s just gotten his waistcoat on. But he opens the door before she can knock again, leaving the cane behind and instead shoving his revolver into the waistband of his trousers. Because fuck knows where his holster has gone. Neither Gods nor dead men have any use for a holster.

Alfie Solomons, however, might just have use for a gun when there’s a strange man apparently taking a nap outside his fucking house.

Esther takes the lead through the house to the living room. Or rather, one of the living rooms. His preferred one, with glass doors opening up towards the sea and a staircase leading right down to the beach. Esther moves out of the way when he lets out a noncommittal grunt. Then he opens the door and goes to assess the damage.

First of all, it’s a lovely day outside. Or about to be. It’s the bloody crack of dawn, innit? But the sky is a warm, pinkish orange, and the wind is just quietly rustling through the grass, leaving the sea a glossy mirror.

And at the foot of his steps lies the barely recognizable form of none other than Tommy Shelby.

He’s slumped over the last few steps, curled on his side close to the wall of the house. Dressed in nothing but an undershirt and trousers. Even his feet are bare. And it could be that Alfie’s never seen him dressed in anything but a three piece suit, but he looks absolutely tiny. Impossibly small and fragile, cheeks sunken in and with dark circles colouring the skin under his eyes. The long hair on top of his head falls in tousled curls over his face. 

“I tried talking to him but he didn’t seem to hear me-“ Esther says from behind him, clearly concerned. “Should I call someone?”

Call who? Yeah sure, Alfie could potentially call some of his men in London to have them take care of it, but it’d be hours before they’d arrive. Could call Tommy’s fucking family, but then he’d have the premises swarming with Shelbys and that would be a fate worse than death.

“Nah, just go put the kettle on,” Alfie grunts and steps outside. Esther hesitates but then disappears into the house.

Tommy remains motionless.

“Tommy?” Alfie says as he approaches, gaining no reaction. “Oi, Tommy! Fancy calling before you just decide to drop by like this?”

He halts on the steps where Tommy lies and kicks him. Not hard. Not at all, he’s not cruel. Well, not when it comes to Tommy at least. That does the trick, though. Tommy lets out a pitiful little whimper which for some strange bloody reason sends a pang right through his chest. Won’t do anyone any good to look further into that, so Alfie just kicks him again. But it’s more just a prod with his toe.

“Go on sleeping beauty. Do you mind waking up and telling me why you’ve decided to crash on my doorstep?”

Finally Tommy opens those ice blue eyes. Just a sliver. But Alfie gets the pleasure of watching the long eyelashes flutter and he’s not ashamed to admit that it’s a lovely sight.

Tommy looks up at him. Just looks. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just gazes listlessly at him. And that, that unsettles him, doesn’t it? Because even when Tommy stood in his doorway all those weeks ago, with that look of absolute dejection at having a gun pointed at his face, there was some semblance of… _something_behind his eyes. Perhaps not that sharp spark that usually resided in them, but at least there was more than this complete emptiness. 

“If you wanted to come visit you could’ve just said so,” Alfie says. “No need to be so dramatic about it. Then again I do suppose you have a flare for that, don’t you? Trying to assassinate someone on stage- Figured that wouldn’t work, you silly boy. Is that why you’ve been hiding from everyone this past month? Yeah, don’t think I haven’t heard about it-“

As he talks he stares Tommy straight in the eye. Or at least tries to, because after just two sentences or so, Tommy’s gaze slips down to the pillars bordering staircase instead. Perhaps he’s looking out at the sea?

Alfie throws his hands up in defeat.

“Alright, since you’ve made it perfectly clear you’re not planning to move, or even fucking answer me, I suppose I’ll just go inside. Because I don’t really feel like standing around out here.”

That’s a lie, he absolutely doesn’t mind being outside. Quite prefers it actually. His best past time these days is sitting in his armchair with the glass doors open and read.

He fully expects Tommy to follow him. Or say something. Or just… do _anything_.

But Tommy doesn’t follow him. Alfie goes inside anyway, because he’s got to at least attempt to keep up appearances.

Esther enters the room carrying a tray with tea, her eyes instantly drawn to the door.

“How is he?”

“He’s just fine,” Alfie mutters, seats himself in his favourite armchair and reaches for his book. “Just sulking a bit, isn’t he?”

Esther furrows her brow and sets the tray down in front of him, before going to look out the door.

“Mister, there’s tea if you’d like some?”

“Just leave him be,” Alfie huffs and pours himself a cup. “Go do something useful instead. He’ll come inside when he feels like it.”

Esther furrows her brow, a huffed breath escaping her. But she leaves.

For a long while, Alfie just sits there waiting. Admittedly there’s some element of excitement to this whole thing. Being dead is peaceful but can get a bit boring at times. So for now, he views this as simply a little break in his daily routine, waiting for Tommy to come inside. Perhaps reveal he’s had some kind of plan all along, that for some reason involved putting on this show…

But Tommy doesn’t come inside.

Alfie drinks two cups of tea and reads not two but three chapters of his book. Or rather, tries to tell himself that he’s reading, while actually just sitting like on pins and needles waiting.

If this is some kind of game, it’s a strange one, but he wouldn’t put it past Tommy…

But then he thinks about it. Really thinks about it; The fragile appearance, the dishevelled clothing... Tommy wouldn’t let anyone see him like that, not even if it was part of some elaborate scheme. The bare feet somehow bother him the most. Those, and the empty look in his eyes.

So once the third chapter is finished, he finds himself closing the book and getting out of his chair without having consciously made the decision.

And Tommy… Tommy is still on the fucking steps. Curled right where Alfie left him, close to the wall, gaze fastened on the opposite pillars. He’s shaking now. _Fuck_. It’s fucking cold outside, and for some bloody reason Alfie feels guilty for not having considered that.

Leave it to Tommy fucking Shelby to stir up those kinds of strange emotions by merely existing on his steps.

“Alright, enough’s enough, Tommy,” Alfie grunts and ambles towards him. “How about you come inside for a bit, hm? While I call and get a car to come pick you up. How the fuck did you get here by the way-“ He looks up and down the beach, scratching his beard. Not very likely that Tommy would’ve left his fucking car on the beach now though, is it? “Can’t have walked all the way from fucking Birmingham. Or is this some new idea you’ve had? Make a pilgrimage on foot to the newly instated deity, eh?”

Tommy just keeps staring at- yeah at _what_exactly? The sea? Granted it’s a nice view, but Tommy isn’t the type to stare at the sea for two fucking hours straight.

Suddenly Tommy’s head jerks a little and he shakes it erratically, eyes wide… Alright, either he’s putting on one hell of an act, or something is seriously wrong. And Tommy may be a scheming little cunt -a scheming little cunt with eyes men could drown in and a face chiselled by God himself, but a cunt nonetheless. But Alfie would like to think the two of them have some kind of understanding. And included in that understanding is that they’re upfront about their schemes and betrayals. This -the bare feet, the haunted look in his eyes, the fucking… sitting on Alfie’s steps for two goddamn hours without moving- this doesn’t seem like something Tommy would do.

Which leaves Alfie with the conclusion that something truly is very wrong. And it’s not very nice conclusion.

“Alright, Tommy, up you go,” he says and crosses his arms over his chest hoping to signal finality. “Get that scrawny arse inside and onto the sofa and I’ll have Esther make you a cuppa. Get you warmed up a bit. And then, like the truly saintly person I am, I’m going to call one of my men and get them to drive you home-“ That word, home, seems to register, even if none of the others do. Tommy shakes his head again, that erratic little shake. Still without looking at Alfie. “Yeah, sweetie, home. To that batshit crazy family of yours-“

That does it. Tommy’s entire body jerks as he stares up at Alfie, terrified. Clutches the arms tightly over his chest.

“No.”

So he can in fact still talk…

“Sure. Bet they’re wondering where you’ve run off to-“

Tommy shakes his head so fervently that Alfie loses his train of thought. And then he grabs onto his trouser leg which, yeah, just seals the deal alright, something’s definitely wrong with him.

“No,” he repeats, “Please, please- they’ll- let them- Please I can’t- can’t be somewhere like that-“

Alfie decides that he’ll stop trying all together to make sense of what Tommy is saying. Besides, at the moment he’s thoroughly distracted by the fucking scar on the side of his head. He’s kept that side hidden, pressed close to the steps, but now he sees it. A red, angry line. Ridges and rivulets all along it. His hair has grown but that somehow just makes it all the more jarring.

Tommy grips harder onto his trouser leg and continues shaking his head and the thoughts about the scar will have to wait.

“Alright, alright, fucking hell I won’t call,” Alfie says, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “ Let’s just go inside. How about that? You just come inside and sit there for a bit?”

God, why does he bother? 

Because he’s bored.

And because he’s always had a week spot for pretty men, with pretty, blue eyes.

And empty, haunted blue eyes are still blue.

Those blue eyes are staring straight at his knee now, glazed over again, as Tommy keeps mouthing the word ‘no’ over and over. A cold gust of wind passes right through Alfie’s waistcoat and that settles it, he’s done standing here waiting. None to gently, he grabs onto Tommy’s upper arms and hauls him to his feet. He couldn’t have done that a year ago, but it’s a miracle what doing fuck all, getting plenty of sleep, and just generally being dead will do to a man. And Tommy was small to begin with, and has by now turned into the size of an injured bird. He sways precariously so Alfie pulls one of his arms over his shoulders. Tommy goes along with it as some kind of puppet with its strings cut.

“In we go, come on. Do you remember how to walk eh?” Alfie mutters and starts walking up the few steps to the front door. Tommy looks back at that spot again, between the two pillars. Because apparently two hours of staring at it wasn’t enough. But he does follow without a fight.

After a worryingly easy walk into the living room, Alfie deposits his precious cargo onto the sofa. Tommy pulls his knees up to his chest and curls himself into a corner, looking almost provocatively vulnerable. Alfie digs out several blankets from a chest he only now remembers he owns, and spreads them out over him without gaining much of a reaction at all.

He pops his head out in the corridor to get an excuse to look away from the unsettling sight, and calls for Esther. She appears moments later at the end of the corridor, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

“Make us another cuppa if you don’t mind, Esther. Strong and piping hot.”

With a nod she goes to carry the order out, and Alfie is forced to turn and face Tommy again. 

Tommy is looking right at him, eyes large and feral. They follow him warily as Alfie goes over to his armchair and slumps down in it.

“So, while we’re waiting, do you mind telling me where exactly you got that?” he says in obvious reference to the scar. He grins and gestures to his own, objectively much more gruesome one. “Did you feel a sudden urge to get a matching one, eh?”

Tommy blinks and his eyebrows draw together -second to his outburst a minute ago that’s the first sign he’s given of hearing Alfie at all. His eyes slip to the floor as he reaches up and runs the tips of his fingers over the scar. Patience isn’t Alfie’s strong suit and these interactions are quickly beginning to grate on him. And the thing is, usually this abject vulnerability would fucking provoke him. It doesn’t do to turn up at someone’s house in this state, least of all if that someone is a man like Alfie. Clearly Tommy has stopped viewing him as a possible threat. Silly boy should know better after so many years of this life -you can’t show weakness like that. People will exploit it.

But most of all, Alfie feels some bone deep fucking urge to… _hurt _whoever did this to Tommy. The list is long so finding someone to pin this on wouldn’t really be a problem.

The problem is that it’s entirely possible he did it to himself.

Tommy is still running his fingers along the scar. Over and over again, the same movement.

His eyes however have turned to one of the corners of the room. Alfie turns to look, it’s a in instinct really, but all he finds are the bookcases and the globe. Then again the bookcases are full of books and objects so there’s no trouble finding something to rest one’s eyes on. He thinks that Tommy might be looking at the stuffed crow.

“Yeah, got a funny story about that crow, don’t I? See that bird, that fucking bird had taken to waking me up every single morning by cawing real bloody loud,” he says and ignores that Tommy isn’t listening. “Drove me near mad. So one day I opened the window and shot it. Mind you it was an impressive fucking shot. Had a friend of mine stuff it to remind me that sleep’s important and all that, and that anyone who disturbs it might meet a quick and violent fate.“ It’s a lie of course, the thing about the crow. It belonged to a departed friend who thought it’d be funny to leave it to Alfie. “Which you have done by the way. Disturbed my sleep. So do you mind at least having the curtsey of answering my question?” He tries catching Tommy’s gaze but it’s hopeless. “Where did you get that scar?”

“I know,” Tommy mumbles to the crow. Or to the corner. Still touching the scar. “I’m sorry. I tried- I did-“

Alfie feels fucking queasy now. He should be used to seeing displays of human fragility, but this is making even him uneasy. When Tommy suddenly takes to violently scratching the scar, he shoots out of his armchair quicker than he’d like to admit, crashes down on the sofa and grabs his wrist. Staring at him with those wide eyes, Tommy fights him, weak as a kitten.

“Fucking hell, enough of this bloody nonsense, Tommy!“ He grabs onto his other wrist and holds it without much struggle, but Tommy just continues squirming, making terrified little noises behind closed lips. His breathing grows erratic, coming in quick bursts and Alfie can feel his pulse race underneath his fingertips.

“Tommy, no, fucking enough!” he barks and tries to somehow latch onto something in those terrified eyes. Tommy keeps fighting him, more of those little noises bubbling up his throat. It’s all wordless and feral and his breathing is so quick and shallow that he must be close to fucking passing out. He knows it’s physically impossible for a human heart to burst through a ribcage but still-

When Tommy pushes a foot out in a badly aimed kick at his ribs, a burst of hot rage swells behind Alfie’s temples- And he lets go of the bony wrists in pure shock.

“Enough!” he roars and when the growl does nothing except elicit another whimper from Tommy, he slaps him across the face. Hard. Seems to do the trick though. But instead of fighting and making those godawful noises, Tommy flings himself off the sofa and scoots backwards over the floor until he’s backed into a corner. There, he curls up into a tightly wound ball of limbs, arms over his head and head tucked in behind his knees.

Alfie just sits there on the sofa. Waits. But Tommy doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to hurt himself, but his entire fucking body is trembling and- Yeah, that’s… that’s not right, is it? Scratching his beard, he tries to swallow down the feeling of guilt bubbling up in his stomach. It’s as unexpected as it is unfamiliar.

It’s at that moment, Esther choses to show up with the tea.

“Oh dear,” she says, as she sets the tray down, eyeing Tommy with wide, worried eyes. “He’s in a bad way, isn’t he?”

Alfie only grunts in response.

“Would you like me to call the doctor? I could call Mr. Adelman-“

He shakes his head and staggers to his feet. “Nah, no fucking doctor. Don’t want to be dragging people out here until-“ Until what? Until he’s figured out what the fuck to do with this broken mess of a person who’s just decided to show up on his doorstep? Until he’s figured out what’s wrong with him? How he even got here… _Why _the fuck he’s here… Fuck, this is all together too much for one person to handle.

“Tommy? You planning on joining us anytime fucking soon, mate?” he asks and eyes the pitiful figure curled up in the corner. “Oi, I’m fucking talking to you.”

It’s useless, of course. It’s obvious Tommy can’t hear him, that he’s not all together there.

Not there at all.

“Oh for fucks sake!” Alfie exclaims. “All I fucking wanted was to live in peace and quiet, yeah? It was all going fucking brilliantly. And I let you into my house one fucking time and this is what happens? You just decide show up here like some kind of lost fucking dog-“

Esther hushes him. Fucking hushes him. But it takes him aback enough to quit yelling and stare at her instead. She takes a step back, eyes growing wide and he reckons he makes for quite a terrifying sight- the scar and hazy eye has added to that look. But then she squares her jaw.

“Apologies, Sir,” she says firmly. “But I really don’t think you should be yelling at him. That has rarely helped anyone calm down.”

He just stares at her. Bites his teeth together so hard that his molars fucking creak. And she stares back. 

“May I?” she asks after several tense seconds have passed, nodding in Tommy’s direction. Tommy, who is still curled up into his protective little ball in the corner, trembling and now back to making those terrible little whimpering sounds again. Fuck, Alfie could shoot him right then and there for walking into his house and overturning everything.

For making him feel… whatever this feeling is.

But all he does is throw his hands up in defeat at Esther’s question and stomp across the room to retrieve his pipe just to have something to occupy himself with.

Esther meanwhile wastes no time, but slowly walks up to Tommy’s quivering form.

“Wouldn’t get too close if I were you,” Alfie mutters and shoves tobacco into the pipe with unnecessary force. “Might not look it but he’s a violent little thing.” And Esther has the guts to fucking huff at him, before she crouches down in front of Tommy.

That woman is all together insane.

Then again there was a reason he hired her out of all people.

“Hi there, love,” she says, gently, without touching him. “Did all that yelling scare you? Well, I promise that his bark is worse than his bite.”

Alfie rolls his one good eye -can’t really tell if his bad one rolls too, it tends to do whatever it pleases. Which Esther obviously can’t see so she continues, undeterred.

“You seem awfully cold. How about we get you over to that armchair, and I’ll give you a cup of tea…”

Alfie holds his breath when she reaches out and gently touches Tommy’s shoulder. He twitches, but does nothing else.

“You poor thing… Seems like you’ve been through enough as it is. But I promise you’re safe here. And I’ve told mister Solomons he can’t be yelling at you like that, so he won’t do that again-“

The fucking nerve. Why does he surround himself with these people willingly?

Esther has started rubbing Tommy’s shoulder and lo and behold, the shaking seems to subside. For some reason it incites more of that guilt, because clearly it’s not fucking impossible to calm him down, it’s just impossible for Alfie.

Underneath it there’s something else. Some unidentified feeling he refuses to acknowledge or put a label on right now, but it’s dangerously close to jealousy.

He focuses on lighting his pipe and looks out at the sea for a while, dreams of calmer, less complicated times when he was just a dead man minding his own business. Times like just yesterday.

Over in the corner, Esther has helped Tommy up on his feet and is now leading him to one of the armchairs. The softest one, with big plush cushions. Tommy’s eyes are flickering around the room, never in one spot for too long, but he obediently sits down and pulls his feet off the floor.

It’s strange, that. Tommy’s always had this rather reserved body language, preferring to cross one leg over the other instead of putting both feet on the floor in that wide stance and lean back in his seat as most men tend to. Not that Alfie pays any extra attention to Tommy or the way he likes to sit, but it’s impossible _not _to notice things like that and one must always be observant in this business… Point is, even though he always sits like he’s got a stick up his arse, Tommy never consciously makes himself smaller the way he is now.

“Here you go, dear,” Esther says and holds out a cup of tea for Tommy to take. “I don’t know how you take it, but I put a bit of milk in. And it’s not too hot, so you shouldn’t burn yourself.”

Tommy just stares at the cup, blinking. Esther waits patiently, but when he just keeps staring at it, she gently puts it down on the table next to the armchair.

“It’s alright, love, you go ahead and drink it in your own time,” she says softly, but there’s a concerned wrinkle between her eyebrows. “I’m going to go see if I can find you a pair of socks. And a jumper of some sort, you look awfully cold…” And with that she hurries out of the room with a somewhat admonishing look in Alfie’s direction.

Alone with Tommy again, Alfie finds himself at a loss. Clearly he doesn’t know how to handle this, so what is he supposed to do? But gentle and firm seems to be the route to go and he’s fucking capable of that isn’t he? He’s not an animal. He takes a drag of smoke and watches Tommy, trying to figure out what to do now.

Tommy’s gaze has caught on something on the sofa and Alfie realises he’s staring at the blankets.

“You want them back, hm? Yeah, figure you do, you seem to be fucking freezing.”

He picks up the lot of them and goes over to the armchair. Of course Tommy doesn’t reach out for the blankets. Seems like he’s incapable of making decisions of his own if they don’t involve huddling in a corner. So Alfie picks out the softest one and unceremoniously drapes it over Tommy’s lap, trying to not get too close. But when Tommy doesn’t flinch, he actually takes care to drape the second one over his shoulders with a bit more precision. The last one he drapes across him too.

“There we go. Bet just warming up a bit will help. Never does anyone any good being that cold.”

He goes over to his own armchair and seats himself there; Tommy has gone back to emptily gazing at nothing in particular in that unsettling way, but his shoulders have dropped a bit.

Alfie decides to go back to the book he’s currently working on in an attempt to distract himself from this whole situation for a moment. There are about a million things he should be doing right now: Figure out what the hell is wrong with Tommy, where that scar came from, how he ended up here, _why _he ended up here... The list goes on, doesn’t it? But just thinking about it all makes him question this whole thing. What right does Tommy have to just fucking show up here and create all these questions? Granted, Alfie could call some people. Try to get some intel about what the hell has actually been happening in Birmingham this past month. But the thing is he was perfectly fine with just being dead. Sure, it may not be the most exciting or riveting of lifestyles but at least he got some fucking peace and quiet…

He’s honestly about to give up and demand that Tommy gets out of his fucking house. And he looks up to tell him that. 

Tommy is asleep in the armchair, blanket pulled up to his nose, bony fingers grasping the fabric. That fit must’ve drained the last bit of energy out of him. Not that he seemed to have much to begin with.

Alfie should wake him up. He should wake him up, drag him out of that chair, out the door and tell him to go back where he came from. So Alfie can go back to being a dead man in peace.

Long, dark eyelashes flutter slightly over the pale skin marred with dark circles. Tommy shifts the tiniest bit under the blankets and sinks a bit further into the cushions.

Alfie should wake him up.

Should throw him out.

But instead he just sits there watching him.

Fucking hell, what’s he gotten himself into... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and thank you for the lovely comments -I'm finally back to actually *responding* to them too, so please do leave one and talk about your feelings<3


	3. Come wander with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy wakes up in a strange place and struggles to make sense of things...

It’s cold.

Why is it always cold?

Might be the fog. It seems to seep in through his clothes, through his skin and settle into his bones as he wanders across the field, bare feet sinking into the cold mud. The mud sticks to him, pulling downwards and making it difficult to lift his feet. The sound of his footsteps is loud in his ears -that wet, smacking sound… And he’s been walking for so long and he’s so tired. But he has to keep walking. Doesn’t know why, just knows that he’s got to.

When he takes a breath, the fog comes in along with the air, filling his lungs until he’s cold from the inside out-

He’s tired and wants to sit down and rest. But if he does he’ll never get back up.

That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

No, the mud will swallow him if he stops walking. It’s deep, and he can feel it moving somehow beneath his feet, like ripples on water. Below him, that’s all there is, yards and yards of nothing but wet, cold mud, and he only stays above it because he keeps walking if he stops it’ll suck him down. He can rest if he gets off the field -there’ll be grass where he can lie down. But his legs are so tired. Maybe he’s going in the wrong direction? It’s hard to tell with all this fog…

If he calls out for someone, perhaps they’ll answer and he’ll know if he’s walking in the right direction?

“Hello?” he calls out, voice disappearing out into the fog,. “Is anyone there?”

He’s answered with nothing but silence. Not even an echo. And he tries again

“Hello?”

More silence.

Then-

“Who are you calling for Tommy?”

The voice makes him stop in his tracks.

He can’t tell where it’s coming from, but maybe it’s coming from inside his head like all the others…

“You should’ve come to me, Tommy, now look where you are.”

He tries to continue walking, remembers that he has to, but his feet are hopelessly stuck in the cold mud, it’s sucking him downwards and the fear grips around his chest makes it feel tight, full of smoke and fog and-

“Why couldn’t you, Tommy? What made you change your mind?”

“I didn’t,” he says, voice cracking. “I didn’t change my mind, I don’t know what happened-“

“Liar.” 

He wants to come up with another answer. One that will make the voice happy. But he doesn’t know the answer, he never knows the answer to all the questions and the fog and the cold and the fear is making it impossible to breathe impossible to speak- He chokes out a pitiful sound, trying to call for help.

“Who are you calling for? Who would help you?” 

The mud claws up his legs and he tries to move, loses foothold and falls. And the surface of the field breaks and he’s engulfed by the cold, wet dirt. It’s everywhere around him and he can’t stop the scream that erupts from his throat, but the moment he opens his mouth the mud floods in, down his throat, fills his lungs and he chokes and screams and-

“Tommy-“

Screams-

“Hey, calm the fuck down.”

Hands are shaking him. Unfamiliar hands, warm and strong and large.

“Fucks sake… You’re alright-“ The voice, unlike the hands, is familiar. And it turns softer now. “Well, alright may be overstating it, but there’s no need to be screaming, now, is there?“ There’s a slap against his face, just hard enough to break through the fog, and then the hands continue to jostle him-

He can breathe. It’s difficult, still, but the mud isn’t pressing down on his chest. Isn’t filling his mouth or throat, and he gasps frantically for air. Opens his eyes to find the field gone. In its place is a room he doesn’t recognize and-

Alfie.

Alfie is standing hunched over him, and it’s his hands on his shoulders. This is a dream too then. No, no, in dreams you don’t realise that it’s a dream. One of the voices has told him that, he thinks that it may have been Lizzie’s voice and he should trust Lizzie’s voice.

And why would he dream up an Alfie with that huge scar and glassy eye to remind him that he ruins the lives of everyone he touches?

Not a dream then but-

“Well, good morning sleeping beauty,” Alfie grunts and squeezes his shoulders once before straightening up. “Or good afternoon, rather. Took quite the nap there. Granted you’re probably due for about… fucking a hundred of those. Considering the state of you-“ More words are coming out of his mouth but they melt together into a droning buzz that pours out of his mouth and into Tommy’s ears - “-really should’ve just called someone-“ it fills his head, like wet mud or cotton and makes it heavy.

There’s soft fabric draped over him and he grips onto that. It’s real and he can touch it. He grabs onto armrest of the chair with his other hand. He can touch it, it’s real- real and _there, _but why is he in this strange room, and why is Alfie here?

“Don’t you remember, Tommy?“

He turns towards the voice, sees Grace there in the corner. There’s a crow on her shoulder, watching him with curious eyes.

Alfie was talking about a crow before.

When?

“-probably should drink something, mate. And eat, fuckin hell you-“ The water and the mud and the fog buzzes and rustles-

Grace tilts her head a bit to the side. “You went here because you know you could get help. I told you, remember?”

He shakes his head because he doesn’t remember- he doesn’t remember-

The crow flaps its wings and flies to sit on the bookshelf.

“You needed a way out, so you went here.”

“Tommy, oi, try to focus here- stop staring at that bird-“ Hands on his shoulders again but Grace’s voice keeps his eyes fixed on her.

“They took down all the mirrors. And took the cords from the curtains…“

A hand grasps his chin and none to gently turns his head. He’s looking at Alfie again, at that scarred face and hazy eye. But the other is sharp and boring into his.

He hears the crow flap its wings and he wants to turn around to look but the hand holding him won’t let him.

“No, no you just keep focusing on me for a bit now, mate,“ Alfie says. Tommy forces himself to release the grip on the armchair and reaches out to grasp onto the fabric of Alfie’s waistcoat. He can touch it, so it’s real.

Which means that-

“Alfie?” If he says it out loud it’ll be more real. If he can get Alfie to answer him…

“And he fucking acknowledges me! What a bloody honour, eh?” Alfie grins and tries to straighten up, but Tommy grips tightly onto his waistcoat. “Alright, not quite ready to let go yet, are you? Fine then. I’ll be a gracious host and let you hold on.”

Alfie is real. The chair he’s sitting in is real. So the room must be real too. Is this one of the rooms of the house he never uses? He doesn’t recognize it, or any of the things. Or maybe he does? It’s difficult to remember…

Why would Alfie be in Arrow House?

Outside the glass doors, he catches a glimpse of red sky. He blinks and tries to figure out what that means. A red sky can be a sign- or was that a red moon?

The sea is there.

“Yeah, sure it is,” Alfie answers, so he must’ve said something. “Glad your eyes are still working. What with me being one down, it’s good to know that between the two of us, we still got three working ones.”

“You remember when we were kids and used to swim in the cut?” He looks around to see where John’s voice is coming from, but he’s not there. “Used to pretend it was the sea, because we went there one summer with mum, but just that one time…”

There’s a sigh and Alfie crouches down in front of him.

“Hey, try to keep looking somewhat in my direction, yeah? Know this room is full of interesting things, but it’s hard to tell if you’re hearing me when you keep doing that.”

Alfie is here, Alfie is real. He can feel the warmth of his body even through his shirt. Can feel the soft material of his waistcoat against his skin. Alfie is real so he’ll listen to Alfie just like he tries to listen to Lizzie-

But he wasn’t very good at that.

That’s why they…

Why they-

“Alright since you’re obviously not all here right now, mate, let me try to remind you,” Alfie says and the thought fades from his mind before he can fully grasp onto it. “You’re in Margate, alright? In my humble abode. I found you, right, I found you on my steps early this morning, or rather, my housekeeper did. And, being an absolute idiot, I took you in instead of demanding you piss off.”

If he looks at Alfie’s mouth when he’s talking it’s easier to follow. But he’s got that beard, so it’s still not all that easy-

“After some rather unpleasant events that we don’t need to remind ourselves of, you fell asleep in this chair, and so you have remained for the last few hours, so you must’ve been absolutely fucking exhausted.”

He’s in Margate.

Why is he in Margate?

“Don’t you remember why, Tommy?” Grace asks him.

“The voices aren’t real Tommy, they’re all in your head. The things you see, too,” Lizzie always says. “Alright? They can’t hurt you and you shouldn’t listen to them. Do you remember what we talked about?”

“Wish I could’ve taken Esme and the kids to the sea-“ John is standing behind Alfie, looking at him.

“Hey, Tommy, you’re disappearing on me again-“ the warm, broad hand is back on his shoulder and he tears his eyes from John to look at its owner. He tries to focus on all the little details on Alfie’s face, the wrinkles and lines and scars. And when he looks back to where John was standing, he’s gone-

They all go, eventually they go and they come back but always out of reach, so he can’t touch them, can never be sure-

There’s a deep wrinkle between Alfie’s eyebrows and he tries to figure out what it means. Alfie’s other hand comes to rest on his shoulder too. The heat seeps in through his clothes and for a moment it anchors him to the soft chair.

“What happened to you, eh, Tom?” he says and his voice is oddly soft. “Why did you come here?”

Why did he come here?

Because all the drawers were locked and he didn’t have much time, couldn’t risk anyone finding him and the mirrors and the cords to the curtains were gone and someone is always close by-

It’s all in your head, Tommy.

How is he supposed to know if he’s remembering things right?

He hangs on to the fabric of Alfie’s waistcoat. Focuses on how it feels beneath his fingers, and only that.

“Alright, I know this wasn’t a very well received suggestion last time, but how about we call someone?” Alfie suggests. “Get you home where you belong. I think they’re better equipped to help than I am- and I do think that you need proper help-“

  
Help.

He needs help.

Professional help. Treatment.

The voices told him that, from behind the half closed door. Strange, that. They’re usually closer, inside his head-

But he’d heard them arrive. And it made him get out of bed.

He shouldn’t be wandering around. Lizzie worries if he disappears. But Lizzie is behind the door too, so she’s not here to worry. The voices are arguing. Angry at each other, which is strange because they’re usually angry at him. But they’re talking about him-

He shakes his head.

“Well, here’s where you lose me, Tommy, because I for one very strongly remember you trusting your family far more than they probably deserve-“

He continues shaking his head, has to make Alfie understand that he can’t, can’t go back- they’ll-

The familiar tightness around his chest is back and takes harsh breaths to make the air go down past it, but it’s so hard, because his lungs are full of mud so there’s nowhere for the air to go-

“We’d be better off without you-“ 

“Anyone you touch, Tommy…”

He lets go of Alfie. Squeezes his eyes shut and slams his hands over his ears despite knowing it won’t help.

The blood rushes behind his ears and he tries, tries to breathe-

Then the warm hands are around his wrists, firm and strong and despite his resistance they pull his hands down and away from his ears. He squirms but the grip is unrelenting, and it somehow grounds him.

“Fine, won’t be bringing that suggestion up again, bloody hell-“ Alfie’s voice cuts through all the others with its rumbling tone. “Point taken. I’ll leave them out of this. Think you can calm down a bit?”

He continues struggling to breathe, tries to focus on the way the rings on Alfie’s fingers dig into his skin. How the warmth of his palms seep into him.

“ ‘s all fine,” Alfie says calmly. “All you’ve got to do is breathe in and out for a bit and the scariest part will be over- It’s unpleasant but it can’t kill you, alright?”

Somehow, that firm warmth around his wrists help. The hands anchors him to reality. No one ever touches him like that, it’s all featherlight and gentle, as if they’re afraid he’ll break even more, afraid they’ll cut themselves on all the broken shards.

That’s why they want to be rid of him, because he’s broken now. There’s this hole in him in that’s opened up like a raw gaping wound and it’s just swallowing everything around it- Anything that’s good or light or decent. He’s no use to anyone, no good for strategizing or quick thinking so why should they want him around?

“If you’d only listened to me, none of this would be happening,” Grace tells him and he knows, he knows it’s his own fault

Alfie holds onto him so he can’t turn around to face her.

“Oi, eyes over here Tommy. I know I’m not the most pleasant thing to look at but that’s really the fault of the present company, so you’ll just have to live with that, won’t you? Hey-“ Alfie squeezes his wrists and tugs a little at them. His voice is firm and sure, like he knows what he’s doing. It makes Tommy want to listen to him.

Alfie looks… it’s hard to read expressions, but he doesn’t look afraid. Tommy focuses on that.

“Good, that’s good, and now we just fucking breathe. In and out and as slow as you can manage.” Alfie breathes, and Tommy tries to replicate the pattern. “In and out, that’s all there is to it. See when you breathe quickly like that you’re not actually getting any air, so that just makes the whole thing worse-“ Alfie’s mouth is still moving but the words fade at the edges, melting into incoherence. When he has to focus all his attention on just making sense of what he’s saying, all the other voices fade for a little bit. “See, you’re already doing better.”

For just a moment, the room goes oddly quiet. He can’t hear his own heartbeat in his ears anymore, or the too loud breathing. For just that one moment, even the voices have gone quiet. The only sound is the distant hush of waves crashing against the shore.

Alfie nods, pleased, and releases his writs. Tommy finds himself reaching for his waistcoat before he can process the thought. Needs to hold onto something-

“Nah, I need to stretch my legs for a moment,” Alfie says and stands up. He pushes Tommy’s hands back. “Why don’t you hold onto that blanket for a bit?”

He starts pacing slowly over the floor, picking up a pipe from a table and going about filling it with tobacco. Tommy digs his fingers into the blanket that’s draped around his shoulders, pulling it close around his neck and burying his nose in it. And with everything finally quiet for a moment, he gets time to think.

In his bedroom there was little use in thinking because each day was the same as the last and they all blurred together into a haze. But now he’s in Margate…

Why is he here?

Unless this is a dream?

No, in dreams you don’t know that it’s a dream, Lizzie reminds him. He picks at the blanket and focuses on the softness beneath his fingers.

Alfie throws a glance over his shoulder before lighting his pipe and resuming his slow walk back and forth across the floor.

“Know what Tommy, I’m in a bit of a predicament here,” he says. “Because there are things one has to ask oneself when they just find their good friend and business partner curled up on their steps and in such a state.” He nods in Tommy’s direction. “And while you were asleep I thought about it. See I’m leading a rather peaceful life out here, what with the seagulls and the ships and all that-“ Tommy stares intently at his mouth because the words are blurring again. “- has to ask oneself how the fuck you ended up here. And if, for example, your fucked up family knows you’re here? And are about to knock down my door.”

He shakes his head

He was so quiet. Very careful. Didn’t even go back for his shoes or look for his coat.

“Right. How did you get here? Because I did have Esther just take a short stroll around the grounds and there was no car in sight-“

Car. Did he take a car here? He desperately tries to remember, but it’s all just black. The last thing he can recall is the voices, the half closed door… The feeling of complete and utter panic, filling up all the way from the pit of his stomach and hitting the back of his throat. His skin bathing in cold sweat.

“You have to go, Tommy. Or do you want to be back in the tunnels again? You know they’ll listen to him. Because he’s right, and they know that-“

He shakes his head at that. No, he’s- he’s not-

“Alright, you don’t remember, I get it-“ Alfie’s voice pulls him from the hazy memory and he blinks. Tugs the blanket closer. “Let’s just leave the questions for now then. No point in asking I suppose.” Alfie is watching him, brow furrowed and fingers scratching through his beard. “I reckon you need to sleep for a bit. And drink something. And we’ll try again tomorrow. Because apparently this is also included in my new life, you know, as a God. Taking in strays that have turned up at my door.” He sucks at his pipe and his eyes rake up and down Tommy’s frame. “Yeah, you definitely need to eat something, too.”

Lizzie has stopped sighing when she sees the tray of untouched food. She has stopped expecting anything different-

“Does that sound like a reasonable plan, eh?” Alfie asks. “Oi, I’m gonna need you to nod when you understand something, even if you’ve decided that talking is below you.”

He nods. Alfie does too, looking pleased. Then he goes over to the door and pops his head out into the corridor.  
  
“Esther, could you put the kettle on again? Our guest finally decided to wake up.”

“Right away, Sir!“

Alfie must notice his confused expression when he turns back. “Esther is my housekeeper. You ought to remember her, because she did manage to make you settle down last time you had one of those-“ He waves his hand. “Episodes. What have you. She left some clothes out for you too.“ He nods to the stool by the chair, where a knitted jumper and a pair of socks lie. “Reckon you can stay under that blanket for now, though.”

Alfie sighs and sits down in the armchair opposite Tommy, leaning back and settling his hands on his stomach.

“Well, would you just look at that. Back to this again, aren’t we?” he scratches lightly over the very edge of the large scar. Sitting in silence for a moment, he studies Tommy intently and then says, “I did tell you, Thomas. Didn’t I? I saw that your state had gotten worse. And I told you that.” His eyes drift to the side of his head and Tommy lowers his gaze and turns away.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a glimpse of white fabric.

“Reckon it got even worse, then,” Alfie says, oddly quiet.

“He won’t help you,” Grace says from his side. “He’s changed, so he won’t do it.”

He furrows his brow, doesn’t understand- Alfie is helping him. He doesn’t know why…

“But he is-“

Alfie makes a sound from his armchair. “What?”

Tommy looks towards him.

Alfie furrows his brow and leans forward, settling his elbows on his knees. His forehead is folded into deep creases. 

“Tommy, who are you talking to?”

And he can’t answer. So instead he just looks out at the sea and the waves. The sight picks at something in all the burnt out remnants of his brain. It’s like searching for a tiny shard of broken glass that’s been buried deep in the dirt. Glass, or a landmine. All his thoughts are like that these days; tiny broken pieces that he can’t puzzle together. 

But it doesn’t really matter. 

He pulls the blanket a bit tighter around his shoulders.

At least he’s not cold anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew that sure was a thing I wrote. Thank you for reading and please do talk about your feelings below <33


	4. No Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie tries to gather his thoughts and find a way to handle Tommy. Mistakes are made.

”Should we try moving him to a bed?”

Alfie glances over his shoulder at Esther, who has quietly appeared beside him and is now watching Tommy with concern in her eyes. He shakes his head.

  
”Nah, think that it’s safer to just leave him be for now. Seems like he’s finally settled in a bit. Or, at least he’s been… moderately calm for the past hour.”

Shame that being ‘moderately calm’ translates to staring blankly at the exact same spot without moving, saying a word, or even acknowledging Alfie’s presence.

A piece of toast sits untouched on the tray next to him, but at least he did manage to drink the tea. Slowly, and after much coaxing from Esther. Alfie left the room for a bit during that affair because he got frustrated just watching the whole thing; Esther patiently holding the cup and Tommy squeezing his lips together like a stubborn child.

Thank fuck he’s got Esther…

But once the teacup was empty Tommy’s eyes glazed over again and he sunk into that disconnected fog he has yet to emerge from. Alfie left him be, thinking that perhaps he’d fall asleep. And, if he’s completely honest, because he didn’t have the energy to deal with him right then. But even after hours of sitting perfectly still, Tommy has yet to close his eyes completely -there’s still a shard of blue beneath the long lashes.

Alfie’s not one to admit it out loud, but he’s honest to God become fucking concerned about the situation. Between the intermittent panic attacks, the disassociation and talking to someone not actually in the room, Tommy really is in quite a state.

Outside the window, the sun is setting in the distance, and he decides that a walk would do him good. Just get out of the house and breathe. Not think about certain people sitting in his living room for an hour or so.

He goes to stand in front of Tommy, right in his line of sight.

“Tommy-“ Tommy just blinks slowly when he snaps his fingers before his eyes. Alfie continues, undeterred, “I’m going out for a bit, alright? But Esther’s in the house, so you just let her know if you… well, if you need something. Food for example. Really think you should consider that.”

Tommy tugs a little at his blanket, and that’s clearly the only answer Alfie will get out of him.

He leaves the room and walks past Esther on his way to the hallway. “Could you keep an eye on him? Just make sure he doesn’t wander off.” She follows him to the hallway of course so he adds, “But don’t bother trying to make him eat. Suppose he’ll do it when he’s hungry enough. And just… Yeah, if he starts talking to no-one in particular, maybe just let him know no one is actually fucking there? Or don’t. Suppose talking to no-one won’t kill him.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him, Sir,” Esther says calmly as she takes down his coat from the hanger and holds it up. “And I’ll try my best to make sure he feels safe and taken care of. Poor thing has been through enough.”

Alfie takes the coat from her and pulls it on.

“Yeah, yeah, poor thing,” he mutters. “Poor fucking thing that’s gotten himself in so much trouble.”

And on that note, he takes his hat and walks out the door into the cool evening air. He doesn’t bother with the cane, because it’s essentially useless on the sand. And most days he doesn’t need it anyway.

It helps, getting out of the house. Helps clearing his head a bit, which just over the past few hours has gone alarmingly blurry, full of disjointed thoughts and questions he doesn’t have the answer to.

He steers his step down towards the beach.

What the fuck has he gotten himself into? That’s the question he’s got to face now. He’s also forced think of the consequences of this absolutely insane choice he’s made, to take in that half mad cunt. And why, why _the fuck _would he do something like that? He still can’t wrap his head around it. Not that he’s tried to either, because analysing that will not do anyone any good.

He looks out at the sea instead.

The water is coloured red in the distance from the setting sun. Red, with little shards of yellow and orange. It’s mirroring the sky, where all the light blue has bled away to give way to the warm hues.

Tommy’s eyes look like the sky.

Just that thought makes Alfie want to walk out into the fucking ocean and not stop…

_Fucking hell. _

He's going to blame this whole thing on those eyes. Those big, blue eyes and long lashes. Alfie can’t help it that he’s got a soft spot for pretty things, alright? It’s entirely out of his hands. And it’s one thing, right, one thing when it’s about business. There’s a distinct set of rules to play after (or break) and it’s been easier in the past to overlook the fact that Tommy’s got eyes that a man would happily drown in, and cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass. Alfie is good at compartmentalizing.

But what is he supposed to when Tommy just shows up at his door out of nowhere, clutching at him, and staring up at him with those blue eyes full of fear, looking fragile and broken and so ungodly fucking human? Granted what’s always intrigued him is Tommy’s razor sharp wit, and there’s not much of that to be found at the moment it would seem. But what’s been left in its place isn’t just something that enrages and frustrates him, it’s also stirring up all these other fucking feelings that he doesn’t care to familiarize himself with. He chooses to label it as pity. The sort you take on a small bird that’s fallen out of its nest. Or rather, one that’s flown into a windowpane and broken its wing. If he looks at the situation that way, perhaps it’ll be easier to deal with? He’s just found an injured bird, a poor, helpless creature that won’t survive without help. He can tuck it into a shoebox full of soft fabrics and try to handfeed it for a few days. Let it rest.

Well, at least until tomorrow. And then he’ll figure something out.

He might tell himself otherwise, but it’s not like he’s got any other plans this little venture gets in the way of.

And the fact is, the bird chose to crash into his particular windowpane. And that has to mean… something. 

Pleased to at least have a plan for the coming hours, Alfie begins making his way back towards the house.

The wind is starting to whip up frothy waves on the water when leaves the beach.

Tommy is still in the armchair when he returns, covered with all those blankets. He’s got the thick, woven one with the tartan pattern wrapped around his shoulders and pulled up to his chin. Seems to be a favourite, that one, because he’s been clutching it since the moment Alfie put it over him. Well, when he’s not holding onto Alfie, that is, or trying to scratch at his scar or fucking… holding his hands over his ears like a petulant child who doesn’t want to listen.

Esther has lit the fireplace, and in the warm glow, the hollows under Tommy’s cheekbones become even more pronounced. But it also washes his skin in golden tones, chasing away a bit of that ghostly paleness.

“He hasn’t moved since you left, Sir,” Esther says quietly as she comes towards him in the corridor. “Should I stay awake tonight and watch over him?”

“Nah, nah, we’re not disrupting our entire fucking night for an unannounced visitor,” Alfie mutters. “Go ahead and go to bed. He’ll be fine.”

“Sir, I really don’t think we should leave him alone,” Esther objects. “He’s not well. And from the looks of things he needs a lot more sleep than those hours he got earlier today. We should at least try-“

Alfie’s not an idiot, he knows what to admit defeat. So, with a sigh, he goes to stand in front of Tommy, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down at him.

“Oi, Tommy, I know that sleeping is below you, but the other people in this household would like to do that, strange as it may sound. And there’s a good sized bed and a rather nice guest room, if you’d like to move from that armchair.”

Tommy is staring straight past him, at the stuffed crow on the bookshelf. Alfie stares at it too, tries to see what’s so fucking interesting about it. There’s absolutely nothing, of course. He leans down and pats Tommy’s cheek, maybe a bit harder than he intended.

“Mister Solomons!” he ignores Esther’s offended call, because Tommy blinks and actually glances at him

“Did you hear me, eh? Think you could consider moving to a bed?” he asks.

Tommy turns his attention back to the crow.

“Why do you have a bird?”

Yeah. Of course. First complete sentence and it’s absolute fucking nonsense…

“Well, I told you about that bird just this morning, Tommy. Don’t you remember that?”

“Shouldn’t it be in a cage?”

Alfie sighs, looks towards the ceiling and prays for patience…

“No, Thomas, because-“ He walks up to the bird, grabs the podium its seated on. “It’s fucking stuffed, alright?” He knocks the birds head lightly against the bookcase, eliciting a dull thud.

“Don’t hurt it,” Tommy says quietly and looks so distressed that it shocks Alfie into stillness.

_This_, this is bad.

“Thomas,” he says as calmly as he possibly can. “This bird, right, this bird wouldn’t feel it if you put it in front of a train and ran it over, yeah?” He holds the stuffed animal closer to Tommy’s face. “Because it is long dead. You see that? How it’s completely fucking still?”

Tommy doesn’t say anything else, but when Alfie moves the bird his eyes follow it. Fuck it, Alfie doesn’t have the fucking energy to deal with this…

“Alright, how about we take the bird and let him outside for a bit, eh? It’s a nice evening, I bet he’d like that.”

Tommy watches him as he walks over to the glass doors, opens them and puts the crow down on the steps, making sure it’s out of Tommy’s sight.

“There we go. He’ll enjoy stretching his wings a bit.”

“Won’t he fly away?” Tommy asks quietly. _Sincerely._

Fuck, fuck, fucking hell this is bad… Faint nausea rolls in the pit of his stomach.

“Nah, he’ll come back once he’s good and ready and fed up with the blustery seaside,” he says, getting a small nod in return, before Tommy settles his head on the arm rest and goes back to looking at the corner.

Alfie makes his way to the door.

“Well, goodnight then. There’s a room down the hall if you change your mind about the bed.”

He doesn’t get an answer, but he doesn’t expect one either.

“Sir, I really would prefer to stay up and keep an eye on him,” Esther says quietly when he comes out in the hallway.

“Don’t bother. He’ll just be there staring at that corner,” Alfie grunts and holds a hand up when she opens her mouth to object. “And it’s gonna do him no good tomorrow if you’ve been awake all night, because handling him takes two alert fuckin’ people. Alright? We can’t all lose our fucking wits here.”

Esther glances into the room, the crease between her eyebrows deepening. “He really should sleep.”

“Yeah well if you’re not planning on bashing him over the head with something, there’s little chance of that happening,” Alfie says. “But he can sleep just fine in that armchair, should the urge strike him. Just go to bed and try not to worry about him.”

And with that, he heads for his bedroom, grunting a half hearted ‘goodnight’ to Esther. Won’t do him any good to linger in the doorway watching Tommy and agonizing over whether this is the right choice or not. He refuses to put in that kind of energy into this thing… Tommy can sit there quietly staring at things that aren’t there on his own just fine.

As it turns out, going to bed and sleeping are two entirely different things, and Alfie finds himself completely unable to do the latter. And when he finally does fall asleep, it’s restless and full of strange, blurry dreams of blue eyes and black feathers.

A distant banging sound wakes him. It’s unusual, that. Apart from the time right after the little shooting incident when every moment he didn’t spend in a drug induced haze was just absolute agony which made it impossible to get any rest, he’s always been a heavy sleeper.

Then again, knowing you have a half mad gypsy in your living room talking to stuffed birds does things to a man…

So, the banging wakes him up. It’s rhythmic, distant, and he can’t place it. But mysterious noises are something that need to be investigated at once, so he reluctantly climbs out of bed and grabs his gun from its drawer before venturing out into the corridor.

It’s fucking freezing out there, and he can hear the wind howling as he follows the sound to the living room.

The room is empty and dark, the fire long burnt out, and the banging sound comes the glass doors slamming into the façade as they hang open on their hinges.

And there’s no sign of Tommy.

Fuck.

In a few long strides, he’s across the room and by the door, looking out into the darkness. The wind hits him like a bloody wall. The cold too.

He considers, honest to God, just going back to bed. Tommy’s wandered off somewhere? Fine. He didn’t fucking ask for any of this to begin with. So why on earth should he go around searching for him, when all he wants to do is go back to bed and just… forget that he ever showed up here?

But then he thinks of those blue eyes. And, well, if you’ve found this injured bird and decided to take care of it, and said bird happened to tip over its little box because it was confused and scared of its new surroundings, wouldn’t you pick the bird up again?

Additionally, if Tommy ends up dead in some bloody ditch, someone is going to find the body eventually and the Shelbys can smell from ten miles away if one of their own is in trouble, so he’d probably end up getting dragged into that whole mess…

Yeah.

Before he knows what’s happening, he’s rifled through a drawer to find a torch, hurried into the hallway to grab his coat and thrown it over his underwear, stepped into a pair of boots almost as an afterthought, and is out in the darkness.

Thankfully the sky is clear and the moon is shining, which helps light his way. He heads for the beach, because for some reason it feels like the place Tommy would go.

Every now and then he calls Tommy’s name, struggling to overpower the roaring wind.

The moonlight bathes the sand in cold light, and the waves roll in over the shore. It’s a completely different sea from just hours ago, when the waves were nothing but frothy little dunes. Now they’ve been whipped up to threatening peaks, crashing against the sand.

But that’s just one of the brilliant things about the sea, innit? The everchanging nature. Never a dull moment with a scenery like that. Well, depending on how you classify dull, of course.

He shines the torch along the waterline, and his heart jolts in his chest when he sees the small figure out in the water. Hunching against the roaring wind, he sets off towards it.

Tommy is stood with his back against the shore, the water reaching just below his knees. But the waves are high enough that every so often they crash over his thighs, making him sway precariously.

“Tommy!” Alfie calls out once he’s close enough, stopping just beyond reach for the waves. “The weather isn’t really right for taking a swim, I’m afraid. Far too bloody cold. Not to mention dark. How about you put that off for a bit?”

Tommy doesn’t acknowledge him, but he does take another step out in the water, and Alfie’s heart is suddenly in his fucking mouth for some reason.

“I promise the sea is still going to be there come spring, alright? And then it’ll be.. it’ll be sunny and warm and you can go swimming all you want.”

Thank fuck, Tommy finally turns around. Not all the way, just so that he can look towards the shore. His arms are clasped tightly around his chest, and the hair is blowing in front of his face.

But he doesn’t say anything.

“Tommy!” Alfie calls, using his most commanding voice. The one that usually makes men quiver before him. “You come back here right this fucking second. Enough of this.”

A wave crashes against Tommy’s slight frame, making him stumble. Fuck, Alfie will have to go out there and get him… But God knows if he’ll be able to drag Tommy back to shore if he decides to start fighting. He’s got no doubts about his ability to overpower him during other circumstances, but that dark, ice cold water makes it a more dangerous endeavour.

Tommy is talking to someone now. Quietly, so Alfie can’t hear him over the wind. But he can see his lips moving, see his eyes fastened on something that isn’t actually there.

“Tommy!”

Another wave crashes over Tommy, very nearly knocking him off his feet.

Fuck it.

Alfie tears his coat off, drops both the gun and the torch down onto the sand and starts wading out in the icy water, cursing all the way. It’s like needles on his skin, piercing and relentless and he loses all feeling in his toes within a few seconds.

“Tommy!” he calls out again, hoping to at least catch his attention. Tommy has started walking again, struggling against the waves. The water reaches his mid thigh now and Alfie knows that somewhere right around those parts, the ground drops sharply downwards…

He tries to lengthen his steps, already feeling his legs going numb from the cold. His heart is in his throat, making his entire mouth taste like blood and what the fuck is he doing, wading out here and probably risking his fucking life for some bastard who’s apparently decided his own isn’t worth having? If Tommy wants to throw away his life well that’s up to him isn’t it?

But he can’t stand there and watch it happen.

So this is the only option.

Tommy is still so far away. He calls out again because it’s all he can do-

Alfie’s got the advantage of being stronger and bigger, so thank fuck he at least moves faster than Tommy in the water, and finally he’s nearly close enough to grab onto him. He does it just as another wave comes crashing over them. It knocks Tommy off his feet and Alfie can’t fucking breathe because the cold water makes his entire chest cease up. He’s got a hand winded into Tommy’s shirt and pulls him out of the water, wrapping one arm tightly around his chest. Tommy coughs and splutters but immediately starts to fight him.

Alfie curses and nearly falls, before he regains his balance and can start dragging Tommy towards the shore. It’s so fucking cold, and Tommy squirms and scratches like a feral cat. The thing that saves them both is the fact that he doesn’t have any strength in his limbs, so Alfie manages to keep him firmly pinned against his chest with one arm, while he winds the other hand into his hair.

Still, it’s only the adrenaline that keeps him going.

When they collapse on the beach, Alfie falls to his knees, panting and finally drawing full breaths once the cold water is gone, his entire body fucking burning with the strain. Tommy is kneeling next to him, coughing and shaking violently, curled in on himself.

It feels like an eternity until he finally regains his bearings. Then he sits back on his heels and hits Tommy across the face.

“You stupid fucking bastard.”

Tommy stares down at the ground, rasping out: “I didn’t ask you to-“ 

Alfie hits him again, so hard that he ends up falling down onto the sand in a trembling heap.

“Oh fuck off! Didn’t fucking ask? That’s the dumbest fucking- you shouldn’t have fucking come here then. Why on the entire fucking coast did you have to pick this fucking beach to end up on?”

Tommy sits up slowly, head bowed and water dripping from his hair where it hangs before his eyes. Alfie barely resists the urge to hit him again.

“Go on, why did you fucking come here?”

Tommy doesn’t answer. He’s staring at the gun, where Alfie dropped it onto the sand. Alfie pitches forward and grabs it.

  
Tommy’s eyes follow his hand, still fastened on the weapon.

“I couldn’t do it.”

The voice is so quiet Alfie can barely hear it through the wind. But it still confuses him enough for the anger to momentarily fade. 

“What?”

Tommy stares at the gun in his hand, arms still wound tightly around his chest.

“ ‘s not easy to…” he mutters. “You’d think- but it’s not so easy. Could shoot you but I couldn’t- couldn’t

Alfie struggles to make sense of the half formed sentences, but a thought begins to take form in the back of his mind…

  
“The fuck are you on about?” he spits and struggles to his feet, staring Tommy down as he continues panting in an attempt to regain the breath he’s still missing.

“I didn’t want to, but you made me. You fucking made me-“ Tommy says, voice cracking. He shakes his head. “Thought it be easy to- but it wasn’t.” 

He keeps looking at the gun where it hangs uselessly by Alfie’s side. Sits back on his heels, shaking. “You wanted everything to end, so, you made me- And, and now- I thought- I need you to-“

And finally, despite the utter incoherent flow of words, the fucking pieces fall into place in Alfie’s head.

The rage fucking rushes through him, white-hot and blinding

“You want me to shoot you, is that it, Tommy?” he spits. “You want me to shoot you in the fucking head? Because its finally stopped working. And you couldn’t do it yourself so now, now you’re asking me-“ All the cold has been chased from his veins. Now it feels like his fucking blood is boiling instead. “You- you have the fucking nerve, to show up at my door, sit in my bloody armchair all day and then- then you want me to _fucking_shoot you? As if I’m just another fucking pawn-“

His voice has raised to such a roar that it tears at his throat when he screams the words at Tommy, and he can feel his pulse throb against his temple. And in the fingers clutching the gun.

“Fucking answer me, Tommy! Look me in the fucking eye and tell me you want me to shoot you.”

But Tommy doesn’t look up, and doesn’t answer. He’s rocking back and forth ever so slightly, shaking violently. Alfie breathes hot air out of his nose in frantic bursts. Squeezes the handle of the gun.

“Right-“ he grasps a fistful of Tommy’s hair and wrenches his head to the side, trying force him to look up. He presses the barrel hard into his temple. “Is this what you want, Tommy?” he hisses through gritted teeth. “How about I put a bullet right here and spray the beach with whatever’s left of your brain? Spare you the trouble…”

He pushes the gun hard against Tommy’s head, imagines the feeling of pulling the trigger. Seeing the last bit of flickering light leave Tommy’s eyes and watch him slump in his grip. Throwing him down onto the sand. One call, to someone who would come fetch the body and make sure it was never seen again and he’d be rid of this problem. This gigantic fucking problem he did nothing to deserve. He can go back to spending his days reading and shooting at whatever passes the window. Peaceful, calm, and yeah dreadfully boring at times but honestly after the life he’s led he fucking thrives on boredom.

And in just a few hours Tommy has managed to ruin all of it.

Now he standing here in the middle of the night, shoving a gun into the bastard’s head. Soaking wet after just having saved the same fucking bastard from drowning himself

He cocks the gun, the click somehow loud enough to cut through the wind. It’d be so easy. And spare him so much fucking grief.

Fuck he should’ve just let him fucking drown…

Tommy looks at him, finally, the hopelessness in his eyes almost seeming to hit Alfie like a physical wave. He presses the gun harder against his temple. Grits his teeth.

“Fine,” he hisses. Readies himself and holds the handle firmer to brace for the recoil. “Have it your fucking way.”

Tommy closes his eyes.

Alfie takes a deep breath.

Then another.

Then he hits Tommy over the face with the barrel of the gun. And Tommy crumbles down onto the sand in a broken heap.

With a roar Alfie aims the gun out at nothing but the dark water and empties the entire thing, shots ringing through the wind. He just stands there for a moment, chest heaving and with a faint taste of blood and adrenaline in his mouth.

Tommy has curled into a ball at his feet, arms around his head as quivers wracks his entire frame.

“Please, he whispers. “Please, please-“ Over and over again. _Please. _

Alfie wants to hit him again. Choke the life out of him, leave bruises all over that beautiful face, split his skull open shake him and force him to turn back to the way he was, the arrogant, smug little bastard who sat opposite him in his office in Camden a lifetime ago and smirked faintly and bled from his fucking nose-

He wants everything except fucking this.

Because the thing is, the stupidly obvious, fucking thing is that right at that moment, Tommy is just a scared little boy, who is all alone in the world, who has finally caved underneath the ever mounting pressure.

And Alfie might not have asked for any of this. And it’s offensive and ridiculous not to mention just fucking delusional, for Tommy to show up here, to demand that Alfie repay some imagined debt

But-

But no one ever asks for a confused bird to slam into their windowpane. It just happens. And then you have to choose how to deal with it.

Alife looks down at the quivering body at his feet for another moment. Heaves a sigh and shrugs into his coat, shoving the gun into the inner pocket. He retrieves the torch from where it’s fallen in the sand.

Tommy struggles a little when he pulls him to his feet, but it’s all uncoordinated and feeble, so Alfie pulls one of his arms over his shoulders, tugging the scrawny body taut against his side. He can feel every single one of Tommy’s ribs through his shirt when he wraps an arm around his waist. And it could be his imagination, but it feels like Tommy folds himself into his body the second he gets close to him. Might be something instinctual; a deeply seated need for warmth. And he stops struggling then. Slumps against Alfie’s side, hiding his face in the fabric of his coat.

By some miracle, he lets Alfie lead him back towards the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alfie is trying. It's just difficult. Thank you for reading and please do leave feelings and/or incoherent ramblings below -they always make my day<3


	5. Tired of hunching in the wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie deals with the aftermath of what happened on the beach. There might finally be a moment of peace

Nothing serves to piss a man off like dragging someone through a storm. Especially when that someone has put themselves into this situation entirely by their own volition and rudely interrupted said man’s sleep. It would make the calmest, most patient of people fucking lose it. And Alfie is neither calm nor patient. He asked for fucking none of this. (He very carefully avoids to think about the fact that he was the one who took Tommy in, no one else. Why should he be held responsible for his past stupid ideas? Preposterous.)

Needless to say, he’s pretty fucking fed up when he finally pulls Tommy up the last few steps to the house. 

He drags him over the threshold into the living room, unceremoniously drops his nearly dead weight onto the sofa and goes to slam the glass doors shut against the howling wind. This time, he locks them.

“Get those wet clothes off,” he says and gestures vaguely to Tommy entire body. “Alright? I’m not doing it for you. And be quick about it-” He’s about to add something along the lines of ‘before you catch your fucking death’, but catches himself at the last moment, wiping away saltwater from his beard and trying to calm his near frantic breaths instead.

Tommy is just looking at the floor, again with that glazed look in his eyes. The one that makes Alfie’s blood boil. But which more worryingly awakens a strange urge to wrap his arms around him and hold him so tightly that all the broken pieces stick back together.

Either way it makes his fingers fucking itch.

He snaps them in front of Tommy without getting any reaction what so ever.

“Oi, are you going to be cooperating here, Tommy? You’ve got fuckin’… sand all over. Thought we’d clean some of that off you before bed. And you’re absolutely freezing on top of that.” 

Tommy doesn’t even look up and the anger sparks hotly inside his head.

Fuck, he’s going to end up beating Tommy absolutely senseless if he doesn’t get a hold of himself.

With his teeth clenched tightly together and nails digging into his palms, he takes a slow breath in through his nose and then grabs onto Tommy’s upper arms. Not hard, just hard enough. The touch finally makes Tommy look at him. 

“Tommy, you listening?”

Tommy nods slowly.

“Good. That’s good. So, you just focus on getting undressed and I’ll go get some water. Clean that-“ he gestures to the sand that’s sticking to the side of Tommy’s face. “All that off. Alright? Because I don’t really feel like a bath is the right… the right thing for you at this precise moment.”

Tommy nods again and, much to his surprise, starts unbuttoning his trousers with shaking fingers.

Alfie clears his throat and makes for the door. “I’ll just be a minute, alright? Just have to get out of these wet clothes first. You can wrap yourself up in some of those blankets…

He’s already out in the hallway when he says that last part and he tries very hard to ignore that he more or less fled the room in a very undignified and obviously flustered way.

On his way to the bedroom, he considers waking Esther up. But truth be told he’s not in the mood to explain this to her. He can already hear the ‘I told you so’ in his head. And she’ll most likely find out tomorrow either way. Might as well postpone the judgements until then.

After quickly getting himself out of his wet underclothes and into a dry set -with the addition of trousers this time, which feels crucial- he makes his way towards the kitchen, pausing just outside the living room to have a quick look. Make sure Tommy hasn’t decided to run off again. He should knock, but this is his fucking house and there’s a limit to the curtesy he will extend to this not entirely welcomed guest.

Tommy hasn’t run off. He’s in the armchair. The plush, soft one he was sat in earlier. And he’s pulled the thickest blanket tightly around himself, curled into a protective ball and hidden everything but his eyes and hair under it. He’s trembling.

And fuck, Alfie’s heart has decided to be entirely against him in this whole thing because it wrenches painfully in his chest. Fucking… twists and clenches as if his ribs are squeezing around it too tightly. Which is just bloody unacceptable and he reminds himself that he is in fact angry at Tommy for a myriad of different reasons.

Shaking his head, he tries to focus on what he was doing. He should light a fire, first of all. If he’s freezing that’s nothing compared to how Tommy must be feeling. Which is what he mutters when he enters the living room, frustrated with himself for feeling like he has to offer up some explanation to his being there.

Ridiculous. It’s his fucking house.

Tommy once again only answers the statement with a nod. 

Alfie occupies himself with lighting a fire, doing his very best not to glance back to check up on him. He may succeed in the odd feat of building a fire in the most aggressive way possible, throwing the logs and muttering curses under his breath when the first match won’t take and when he bumps into the fire poker, making it clatter to the floor. He can somehow feel Tommy watching him the entire time, which is a sensation that is as unnerving as it is irritating.

He just barely bites back some seething comment when he turns around and finds that Tommy is indeed looking at him with wide eyes above the edge of the blanket. He doesn’t particularly care for being scrutinized in his own fucking home, even when it’s by someone who isn’t all there in the head and just a few hours ago was talking to a fucking stuffed bird, and therefore is entirely unable to make any kind of judgement…

“Stay put,” he grunts at Tommy and stomps off to the kitchen, where he uses the leftover water from the kettle and fills a basin with warm water. He slings two washcloths over his shoulder and carries the water back to the living room, incredibly frustrated that he now has to move with some amount of care in order to not spill the water. Which somehow feels like a personal fucking offence.

At least Tommy has stayed in his armchair. And he even turns to look when Alfie enters.

Alfie places the washbasin down in front of the chair, cursing when some of the water splashes down onto the floor.

He pulls up a footstool and sits down.

“Go on, feet,” he says, gesturing vaguely towards the washbasin. “Let’s start with those.”

All he gets is a blink, and he reaches out and taps lightly at Tommy’s leg. Very hesitantly, Tommy stretches his legs out from their curled position. Alfie grabs onto his ankles and shoves his feet into the washbasin, making him flinch.

Some deeply buried, terrible part of him finds it oddly satisfying.

When he picks up one of the feet to dry it, he pauses.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters and stares down at the scratches and bruises covering the entire sole. “Fuck, Tommy, did you get all these now?” 

“No.” Tommy shakes his head, and adds after a bit: “Some are from before.”

Alfie furrows his brow. “Before? From the walk here, eh?”

He gets a small nod in return.

“Right. But you can’t have walked all the way, that’s not fucking possible even with your ungodly level of determination and stupidity.”

“Not all the way,” Tommy says and furrows his brow, as if searching his memory. But apparently that’s all that resurfaces. Alfie adds ‘search for possible car wreck’ to his to-do list. Then he puts Tommy’s foot back into the warm water and dips the washcloth into it. He washes away the worst of the sand from the cuts, before holding one of the feet up to further inspect the damage. Needs antiseptics too, clearly. Would be just perfect if one of the cuts got infected…

When he returns from the kitchen with the first aid kit, he finds Tommy staring towards the doorway as if awaiting his return. He chooses not to comment on that, goes to sit in front of him and pulls his right foot out of the water again.

“It’s gonna sting a bit, this,” he warns him and then goes about cleaning all the scratches with iodine. If it does hurt, Tommy doesn’t let it show. 

Alfie finds himself being more gentle than he’d like. As if he’s some fucking nurse all of a sudden… Which is not to say that’s not a noble and important profession and all, but it’s certainly not something he’s suited to be. And especially not for the present company.

Some of the scratches start bleeding again once they’re clean, but thankfully none of them look too deep. Not in need of stitches or a doctor, anyway. Or a real nurse.

Small mercies.

Tommy doesn’t move or even flinch through the entire ordeal.

“There we go. Now if we can just avoid more of these little barefoot escapades, I bet those will heal up just fine,” he says once he’s finally wrapped both feet in gauze and Tommy has pulled them back in under the blanket.

After yet another trip to the kitchen to fill the basin with clean water, Alfie dips a fresh cloth into it and mutters, more to himself than Tommy, “Now let’s just get some of that sand off, alright? Start off with the hands, maybe?”

The hands feel safer than having to deal with his face.

Tommy hesitantly sticks out one of his arm, using the other hand to hold the blanket up around himself. Perhaps Alfie should’ve offered him some clothes? He reminds himself to find something for tomorrow, and imagining Tommy in his clothes does make the corner of his mouth twitch. At least that’s something to look forward to.

When both his hands and forearms are clean and free of the fine, prickly sand, Alfie can’t postpone the inevitable and moves on to Tommy’s face. He instinctively moves a bit closer, and holds up the towel to clue him in on his plan.

Without a word of protest, Tommy leans his head a tiny bit to the side to give him better access. Alfie starts to wipe away the sand sticking to cheek. There’s already a dark bruise forming there from his hand.

He’ll have to stare at that and be reminded just how close he got to-

He shakes his head to clear it of the thought.

For a while all that’s heard is the wind whistling outside and the crackling from the fire. The silence and the odd sense of calm filling the room gives Alfie more time to think than he’d prefer.

It’s not the first time he’s this close to Tommy. No, there was that unfortunate incident in the warehouse, wasn’t there? Years ago. That whole thing with the priest, and Tommy’s missing kid. Then they were stood inches apart while Alfie yelled in Tommy’s face. But it’s the first time he’s so close for a such an intimate reason, for lack of a better word -and mind you Alfie has spent a good long while trying to come up with one. It does feel intimate. He's suddenly just very aware that Tommy is wearing nothing underneath that blanket. The thought stirs something hot and pulsing in the pit of his stomach. For some reason he fucking chokes on his breath and a stupid sort of rattling noise escapes him. Tommy glances up at him through his lashes.

“Nothing,” Alfie waves the cloth dismissively, desperately hoping it could be passed of as a strange chuckle. “ ‘s just… It’s been a strange day, alright, wouldn’t you say?”

Tommy nods slowly.

Alfie dips the cloth into the water, rinsing the sand off. Then, he wipes along the sharp line of Tommy’s jaw, continuing under his eyes. Tommy closes them. There’s something about that, something about the way he clearly _trusts _him. At least in that fragile little moment. As if its shielded from all the things from the past.

Right at that moment, it seems like Tommy would let Alfie do anything to him.

There’s a slow shift in the air. Tension building like the string of a bow being pulled back…

A bit of sand is clinging to the skin right next to Tommy’s mouth. Alfie hesitates for a long moment, before bringing the cloth there. Tommy parts his lips just slightly, drawing a slow shuddering breath, lashes fluttering but eyes remaining closed. Alfie finds himself intently focused on it all.

The string is pulled further back.

Tommy barely seems to be breathing, sitting there so quiet and still, save for the tremors wracking him. If Alfie wanted to, he could reach out, run a finger down the side of his perfectly chiselled jaw. Just… wrap a hand around that slender neck and squeeze until he couldn’t breathe. Hold that grip and see his skin shift into blue and feel his pulse race. Tommy would probably let him.

And it’s a bad, bad thing, innit? Tommy just sitting there, quiet and fragile and trusting. He should know better. Alfie did threaten to shoot him not an hour ago, and that’s just the latest in a row of questionable actions. But Tommy doesn’t have the sense to not trust him right now, that much is clear.

Sitting this close to him, so focused on his face also makes him discover _other _things which will no doubt lead to only trouble…

Like how Tommy’s lips still look soft and full, despite the rest of him being hollowed out.

How his hair wants to curl softly at the ends now when it’s grown a bit longer.

How even when his skin is translucently pale, he’s got light freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheekbones.

Soft firelight does all kinds of strange things to the mind, doesn’t it?

Alfie clears his throat and drops the cloth down into the basin.

“There we go. Think that’s most of it ,” he grunts and gets to his feet, putting adequate distance between himself and Tommy. Tommy blinks up at him. “And now, you’re going to do such a strange and human thing as sleep for a few hours, alright? In a bed.”

He’s not about to take no for an answer, which he tries to make perfectly clear to Tommy by crossing his arms over his chest and staring him down. Tommy doesn’t seem too keen on the idea. Then again, he doesn’t really seem keen on much of anything, now, does he?

“You’re at least going to lie in the bed. Can’t force you to sleep or anything, but it’s a start,” he says. “Better than sitting here and staring blankly at some fucking corner, I reckon. And most of all it’d give me at least a short moment of peace.” 

He tries to think of Esther -calm, steady, but gentle. Which shouldn’t be completely impossible he tries hard enough. He thoroughly avoids thinking about how he acted down at the beach. But in his defence, Tommy did fucking piss him off. More than piss him off, really, he deeply wounded and fucking offended Alfie-

He ends up calmly, steadily and _gently _manhandling Tommy out of the armchair

And with Alfie’s hand firmly planted on his back, Tommy lets himself be lead through the house to one of the guest bedrooms, limping ever so slightly.

“Right, there we are,” Alfie says and opens the door, waiting for him to go inside on his own. 

Tommy hesitantly does, looking around the room with big eyes and clutching the blanket under his chin. Alfie reminds himself to have Esther put out clothes for him tomorrow. Or, well, today. At a more reasonable hour.

“There’s a bathroom over there-“ he gestures towards the door. “And books. If you’d fancy reading something. In my own quite educated experience, that’s a good thing to occupy one’s mind with-“

Tommy is looking at the fireplace.

Alfie asks, in spite of himself, “Would you like me to light that for you?”

Tommy twists his hands into the blanket and only continues looking. Alfie inhales to sigh irritably but stops himself in the last second, silently counts to five and says, “It’s no trouble. Not at all. Will be done in just a minute, if you want it. Reckon you’re still cold?” 

“Yes,” Tommy says, voice barely more than a whisper.

And so Alfie goes to light this fireplace too.

Tommy is seated on the bed when he’s finished. On the edge of it, but it’s a step in the right direction. His eyes are fastened on a stuffed pheasant in one of the bookcases. Alfie picks it off the shelf without a word. Then he heads for the door.

“Alright then,” he says on the threshold. He doesn’t know how to _hold_the fucking bird suddenly and settles for gripping the little platform it’s displayed on and letting it hang by his side. “Got everything you need then? Bit of warmth. A good bed. Why don’t you try to lie down for a while?” 

Tommy’s eyes look oddly bright even in the darkness of the room. Feels like they could pierce through his skin…

Alfie’s fingers drum against the pedestal holding the bird.

“Well, goodnight then. Do try to at least close your fucking eyes. Bet it’d do you a world of good.”

Tommy is still sitting on the bed when he closes the door.

He shouldn’t fucking leave him alone. He’s well aware. The thing is that he’s not completely unable to see what the right option in this situation would be, it’s just that he’s unwilling to actually… choose it. Fuck, he’s already spent a good portion of the night on a blustery beach, for some unknown reason trying to save Tommy from himself. He’s not about to spend the rest of it watching over him. He needs at least a few hours of solid sleep in order to stay somewhat sane. Yeah. It’s the only logical option.

And with that decided, Alfie heads to bed.

However, as past instances have shown, simply deciding to go to bed is not enough to actually fall asleep. This time he’d like to blame the cold, however. Because he’s still fucking freezing. But it doesn’t really matter why he’s awake, the point is that he is. And lying awake leads to certain _thoughts,_which of course have very little to do with reality, or to do with anything at all, really, but it’s not a good idea to lie awake and let those thoughts take up too much time.

Which is why he quickly gives up on sleeping and sets about solving the issue with the cold.

After getting out of bed with a displeased grunt, Alfie rummages around in a drawer until he finds the hot-water bottle he puts on his back when it’s giving him trouble. That should do the trick.

But when he stands there in the kitchen with the warm, newly filled bottle in his hands, another thought intercepts him. And he knows that logically he should pay no attention to it, because he’s certainly done enough today already. But apparently ‘logic’ is a thing he pays very little attention to these days, because instead of going straight back to his own room, he stops outside the guestroom and knocks on the door.

There’s no answer of course, but he quietly goes inside anyway.

There’s a small lump on the bed, and he goes around to the other side in an attempt to find some opening in the mound of blankets.

Tommy’s eyes are just barely visible, but he can see them glinting in the firelight. Not asleep, then.

He clears his throat, and Tommy’s gaze shifts to him.

“Thought you might still be cold,” he says and holds the bottle out. Tommy blinks at it. He’s still wrapped in that blanket from the living room, underneath all the others. It’s peaking up under his nose. 

“Go on, it’ll heat you back up a little,” he says, trying his damned hardest to sound encouraging. “See, it’s of course impossible to sleep when you’re cold. Heard that the best thing for it is a good pair of socks, but that only works if you’ve got some sort of body heat to begin with.”

He holds the bottle a bit closer. Tommy still doesn’t reach out. Alfie resists the urge to just say fuck it and leave again. Instead he places the bottle down onto the mattress, right next to him. 

After a long moment of hesitation, a pale, still quivering hand reaches out from under the blankets and pulls in the bottle in. There’s some shifting as Tommy seems to curl himself around it and then he lets out a little sigh. It’s the first sign that he’s even remotely enjoyed anything at all since he showed up at Alfie’s door. And it’s… it’s nice. Surprisingly nice actually.

At least he’s managed to do one thing right tonight.

“Right,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “So… Try to get some sleep, alright? It’s no wonder your brain decides to start acting up what with the way you treat it. Try counting sheep or something. Fuck knows if it helps but it could be worth a try-“

Tommy looks up at him.

“Why are you helping me?”

Alfie clears his throat.

“Well, not like you left me much of a choice,” he says. “What with showing up unannounced on my bloody steps. Couldn’t exactly leave you there, could I? Or just let you drown right in my backyard. Or, well, front yard depending on how you see it. I don’t fancy sitting in my armchair looking down at the sea and the beautiful scenery and think about how you fucking drowned yourself there. Bet you’d be one of those restless spirits too…”

He trails off, because for once he just runs out of words.

Tommy says nothing. Just pulls the blanket closer and drops his gaze back to the wall.

But when Alfie has left Tommy’s room and is back in his own, once again lying awake in bed, the question rattles around in his brain.

And the thing is, he doesn’t have a real answer.

_Why are you helping me? _

Because he’s fucking bored, alright? Seemed like a fun and impossible project to put his energy into.

Because he’s curious about _how _exactly Tommy got himself into this utterly fucked up state. 

Because it’s the right thing to do.

Not that he’s ever cared about that before.

But maybe old age has turned him soft.

Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well at least there was some amount of comfort here! Thank you for reading and as always it makes my day when you share your thoughts and feelings <33


	6. Ugly and vengeful

It’s windy outside. Tommy lies awake listening to the sound whistling against the windowpane. His eyelids feel impossibly heavy, but he’s used to that sensation by now. Maybe that’s what they’re supposed to feel like? It’s hard to tell anymore… Hard to know what’s normal. They want to slip shut. But there are too many thoughts whirring around in his brain, rushing so fast that it’s impossible to sleep. Too quick, but fragmented and broken, like shards of glass that won’t fit together.

His eyes eventually fall shut, but he doesn’t sleep. Not ever. Not really.

There’s hardly any difference between being asleep and being awake. He did sleep for a while before, in the armchair by the fireplace. Alfie talked about something, and the next thing he knew he was being shaken awake from a nightmare.

That’s the problem. The thoughts and the voices don’t stop when he falls asleep.

Strange that he fell asleep at all. But he did. Even if it wasn’t very peaceful. Maybe listening to someone talking helped? It made it easier not to listen to all the other voices.

Now, it’s too quiet in the room.

And he’s cold, shaking underneath the many blankets.

Alfie gave him this warm, soft bottle that he could hold. It was warm for a while, but now it’s not anymore. His thoughts got blurrier with every second it cooled down and now it’s cold and his head is just a whirr of nothing. Of fog and mud and too many people talking.

“You should leave, Tommy.”

He tries to ignore Grace’s voice and buries his face under the blanket. Drags the scent into his nose. It smells like… firewood and tobacco and pine something he can’t place.

“There’s nothing here for you.”

He tries to not answer. It’s not good, answering.

“Don’t you see? Why would he help you?”

He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know anything anymore.

He tried making a plan. He pieced together enough of all those broken shards to do that: Find Alfie, ask him- But Alfie refused to see that it would only be fair. Picked apart the pieces again, and now he can’t find new ones to make another plan. Feels like standing on the edge of a cliff and staring down into an abyss, and there’s nothing there, nothing in his head, no thoughts that are _his_, so how can he make a new plan?

“You have to leave.”

He pulls the blanket up under his nose and squeezes it. It’s real and he can touch it. Alfie gave it to him. He drags more of the scent into his lungs. Maybe it can push away all the mud that’s gathered down there?

Alfie went out in the water to get him. And he didn’t want to come back, but Alfie didn’t care-

Why did Alfie go looking for him?

It’s difficult to think when none of the pieces fit together. That piece doesn’t fit: Alfie wouldn’t go out looking for him, no one would do that, he knows.

No one came, no one-

But Alfie did.

He just went out into the water and dragged him back to shore and- and he doesn’t understand why.

Alfie was angry. And still he wouldn’t do what Tommy asked.

It doesn’t make any sense.

He should leave. It’s the one thought he can grasp, so he should listen to it. But he’s cold and his limbs won’t obey when he tries to move them. And there’s no-where to go.

“It’s not far down to the sea.”

No, it’s not far but it’s too hard. It was hard enough before, walking out into that icy blackness. Maybe if he rests for a while first…

Time passes at a crawl, but he’s gotten used to that by now, it always does. And with every passing second, minute, hour the voices grow louder. There are more of them too, they’re always so many at night, so many and so loud and close, close…

He curls up under the blankets, fingers clenched around the soft fabric and eyes screwed shut. Tries to will himself to relax.

Until finally, it’s getting brighter outside. Pale light is creeps in through the blankets, prickling at his eyes.

“Good morning, Tommy.”

He doesn’t recognize that voice… Burrowing deeper into the blankets, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on the way the blanket smells…

“Is it alright if I call you that? Mister Solomons hasn’t bothered with any last names-“ Fabric swishes and more light floods into the room. “Such a darling name, too… My niece has a little son named Tommy.”

There’s a weight on top of all the blankets. It could be a hand.

“I’ve got some tea for you. And scones, fresh out of the oven.”

He _does_recognize the voice. From before. Alfie’s maid. There’s a quiet clink as something is placed on the nightstand and he peers up over the blankets.

Grey light is spilling in through the window opposite the bed, and Esther is standing in the midst of that light looking down at him.

“Oh dear,” she says and furrows her brow. “Is that from the little midnight adventure? Let me have a look.” She grabs the chair that’s stood by the window and seats herself right close to the bed. “Don’t worry, love, I’ll be careful.”

Tommy doesn’t even realise he’s hidden his face in the blankets again until she carefully folds them down. He lets her, because it’s easier listening to someone else. And Esther gave him tea and has kind eyes so maybe he can trust her?

“Of course you can’t-“

It’s easier to ignore the other voices when he’s not alone.

He focuses on Esther. She’s frowning, jaw clenched tight.

“Oh, he’ll hear about this,” she mutters, carefully cradling his cheek. “Bashing around people half his size… What kind of behaviour is that?”

He reaches up and runs his fingertips down the side of his face, only then realising it’s sore.

“Well, you must’ve given him a right scare though, love,” Esther says and pours tea into a cup. He clearly lets the question show on his face because she adds: “Yes, I heard. Or rather dragged it out of Mister Solomons when I saw the wet clothes in the living room.”

She knows.

There was a time when he would’ve felt ashamed. Instead he just feels… nothing.

What does it matter?

Esther makes no comments and asks no questions.

“So, if we just get you situated, we’ll see if maybe we can get some food into you,” she says instead and starts shuffling the pillows around. Tommy suddenly finds himself sitting up, because Esther has somehow lifted him.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” she clucks and gets dimples in her cheeks. “You barely weigh more than a kitten, love. And, mind you, I used to lug around Mr. Solomons for quite a while, helping him up the stairs, or just out of chairs- See, these arms can lift plenty!“ She flexes her arm and smiles again.

It’s strange, looking at someone who looks so… happy.

Everyone’s faces are so drained. Pale, almost grey, with tired eyes. No wonder they have to find a way out, or they’ll all be dragged down by the end.

It’s for the best.

The door opens less and less often. No one can stand being close to him. And he’s always alone in the bed. That’s okay. Lizzie has to think of Charlie and Ruby, they need her.

“Go on-“

He blinks at the teacup that Esther is holding up before him. His gut churns at the sight.

His insides have all withered away. Instead he’s filled up with that cold mud from the field, all the way up his chest, into his throat and it’s hard to eat or drink then. Impossible.

“He won’t eat.”

The doctor hums and scribbles something in his pad. “Have you tried cutting the food up into small pieces?”

Lizzie sighs.

“Of course we have. It doesn’t help.”

There’s a hand on his shoulder and it brings him back. Esther’s eyes aren’t sad. She smiles at him, and keeps holding the cup in front of him.

“You should know that we got one thing in common, Mister Solomons and I,” she says. “We’re stubborn as old mules, the pair of us. And I don’t mind sitting here.”

He accepts the cup and takes a sip. The heat of the tea makes him realise how cold he is.

He drinks all of the tea, and even though it takes a long time, Esther stays there by his bedside. But then she holds up the plate with the scone and his stomach clenches. 

“Oh, it’s just a bit of bread, love, it’s not going to bite you,” she says. He squeezes his lips together. 

“You always were difficult when it came to food.” He can’t see his mother, he never can. But he can hear her. “Wish you’d inherited your father’s appetite instead of mine-“

“God, Tommy, what are we going to do with you?”

“Esther?” Alfie’s voice is instantly recognizable among all the others and he looks towards the door.

“In here, Sir,” Esther calls out and footsteps approach. Alfie appears in the doorway.

“Have you seen my bloody glasses anywhere?” he asks, paying no attention to Tommy. “I swear they’re moving around on their own.” 

“They are where you always leave them, on the dresser in the hallway,” Esther says calmly. “But now when you’re here, why don’t you keep our guest company for a bit while I go make some soup?” She looks to Tommy again. “See, that’s of course what I should’ve started off with. Always good with soup when food feels intimidating.” She pats his cheek, soft and warm. “Don’t you worry, we’ll figure it out.”

With another one of those dimpled smiles, she gets up and trots over to the door, shoving the plate with the scone into Alfie’s hands.

Alfie stands in the doorway with the plate, eyebrows raised and looking between it and the bed.

He clears his throat. “So, how are we feeling today then?” he waves his hand before Tommy can even fully register the question. “Nah, don’t bother. Know you barely talk about that on a normal day.” He seats himself in the chair by the bed. He fills it up in a different way than Esther. Then he stares down at the scone. “You really should try this. See Esther’s cooking really is something else. So much so that I’ve had to fucking replace half my wardrobe.” He lets out a quiet laugh. It’s a nice laugh. “Not that I mind. Nah, it’s all part of my new life in retirement, innit?”

He sets the plate down on Tommy’s lap and leans back in his chair, fingers lacing together over his stomach as he squints at him.

“So, did you get any sleep, eh?”

And Tommy shakes his head. Alfie nods slowly and scratches his beard.

“Hm, yeah, got to admit I didn’t sleep much either. Was up thinking, I was. About this… situation.”

An ice cold hand clenches around his heart.

“You see now, Tommy? He’s going to call them,” Grace says and tilts her head as she looks at Alfie. “Or call a doctor. They’ll come and get you-“

His heartrate picks up and the ringing starts in his ears. But then Alfie’s hand is on his shoulder.

“Oi, Tommy, focus.”

“And then they’ll lock you up.”

“I can leave,” he says and looks down at the blanket. “I can- you don’t have to-“

“Leave?” Alfie’s hand falls and Tommy desperately wants to hold onto it. “Leave and go where exactly?”

He tries to just focus on breathing, fighting against the burning sensation behind his eyes. He’s got nowhere to go. That’s the thing. There’s nowhere and no one-

Wants him or needs him or ever wants to see him again and if he could just erase himself from the world and everyone’s memory so that no one would ever have think of him again-

“Well, Thomas, sorry to disappoint you but that’s out of the question,” Alfie says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “See, you might’ve been able to convince _me _that letting you walk out that door and fend for yourself would be the best option. Bring me some peace of mind and let me go back to my daily life and busy schedule. But it just so happens that I’ve hired the most stubborn and infuriating woman in all of England, and she has very much taken you under her wing. So you’re just stuck here now, aren’t you?”

He blinks and glances at Alfie. Tries to gauge his expression, see if he’s lying. But it’s hard. It didn’t use to be so hard. Now it’s always hard, and takes such a long time for him to puzzle things together. But the corner of Alfie’s mouth twitches and there are wrinkles around his eyes.

“Why?”

Alfie raises both eyebrows. “Why Esther has decided that it’s now hers and by extension my mission to nurse you back to somewhat health? Well, that’s a good question. But I’d bet good money it’s because you have those big blue eyes. See, baby animals got those as well. Large eyes. It incites a burning urge to care for and nurture them-“ Alfie’s mouth keeps moving but now the words are blurring together. At least he could piece together more of them this time.

“Tommy, you are just postponing the inevitable. There’s nothing here for you.

He shakes his head at Grace’s words. Doesn’t want to listen, because it’s warm in here. It’s warm and people smile and he wants to stay. Not face the reality that he’s got nowhere to go.

Grace’s face is expressionless as always. It’s her face, but still not hers.

“You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve any of it.” She looks at Alfie and Alfie looks at her. For a moment Tommy’s heart is completely still in his chest, before Alfie furrows his brow and looks back at him.

“Alright, I don’t know what other conversations you’ve got going on in that head of yours, but how about we try to focus on the one you and I were having, alright?”

He’s not looking at Grace. He can’t see her because she’s not real, none of them are, try to remember that Tommy…

His fingers run through the fringe on the blanket. The one that’s soft and smells like warmth and fire and that Alfie gave to him. That’s real. And he nods at Alfie.

“Good. That’s good,” Alfie hums. He’s quiet for a bit. “Alright, I know this is going to be hard but do you remember the last time you slept? And not just those uneasy little naps but an actual, full night.”

He doesn’t even try to remember. It’s impossible to rummage around in all the shards and find memories like that. He just has to wait for them to resurface on their own. But he knows it must’ve been a long time. Because the only memories that do resurface are of the dark ceiling in his bedroom and the stifling silence in the large house as everyone else slept.

“See, I think that’s part of the problem here, Tommy,” Alfie says. “I might not be a doctor of any kind, but I do happen to know that the brain, while complicated, does have a few basic things it needs to keep running, yeah? Sleep is one of them.”

He focuses on every word. Just Alfie’s words, and the feeling of the blanket beneath his fingers. What he can actually hear, and what he can actually feel. And when he glances back to the corner, Grace is no longer there.

“Right, so how about you try to eat that?” Alfie nods in direction of the scone. “Think you’d make Esther very happy, see.”

Tommy sinks a little deeper into the pillows. He can’t lift his arms. They’re too heavy, his entire body is too heavy. Like drinking that tea took what little strength he had. Alfie lets out a frustrated huff. He wants him to talk, like he did before… Talk and talk until all the other voices fade, and sit close to him. He doesn’t want to eat or do much of anything. He just wants to sleep, but he can’t sleep-

Everything feels slow and blurry, this hazy, milky fog that he’s floating in, falling through.

Alfie can’t possibly want him here, and still he’s letting him stay and it’s not making any sense, nothing makes any sense…

“Figures you’d end up like this. Far too much like your mother.”

He can see that Alfie’s mouth is moving and he tries, tries so hard to hear what he’s saying, but his father’s voice drowns it out. He wants to reach out suddenly, hold onto him, because the blanket is not enough, his fingers feel numb suddenly, numb and cold and-

“But even she could manage to fucking off herself properly.”

Alfie is looking out the window, mouth still moving. He’s blurred at the edges. Maybe he’s not real either, maybe none of this is?

“Oi, you still with me.” Alfie shakes him. And it’s like being pulled from that icy water again. He nods, and Alfie goes back to whatever story he was telling.

And for as long as Alfie is in the room, he stays somewhat above the surface, even though he has to keep focusing to do it.

Takes it one moment, one breath at a time. 

The whole day passes in that strange fog, and then the sun is suddenly setting behind the clouds in the horizon. Esther lights a fire, and Alfie comes to stand in the doorway for a bit, arms crossed over his chest and with an unreadable look in his eyes. Tommy waits for him to say something. He doesn’t. And when he leaves, Tommy wants to call out for him, beg him to not leave him alone. But he can’t make a sound.

Eventually the house is enveloped in that silence that tells him everyone else is sleeping. 

The fire burns out too quickly, leaving the room in inky darkness.

Tommy lies awake.

….

There’s a tapping on the window. Alfie’s crow is sitting out there on the windowsill, tapping on the glass. It must be cold outside, and it’s not nice to be all alone in the cold, so Tommy goes to let it in, carefully opening the window. But the crow flies away and his heart drops into his stomach. Alfie will be angry.

He leaves the window open if the crow wants to come back in, and sits down to wait. He’ll feel better if it comes back, so he’ll just wait, he can sit here just as well as lie in the bed. It’s a bit cold, but he’s got the blanket Alfie gave him and he can wrap himself up in that.

If he just waits here the crow will come back and Alfie won’t be angry.

“Tommy, for fucks sake!”

The moment he hears the sharp voice he realises that it’s not dark anymore. Which is strange because he’s been looking at the window all this time but somehow not noticed. There are footsteps approaching but he has to keep looking-

“Fuck, what did you do that for? If you thought it was too warm you could’ve just asked Esther to not light the fucking fire.”

Alfie pulls him up to his feet and leads him back to the bed. Tommy tries to resist, but it’s like trying to move a brick wall. But he has to explain…

“The crow-“

“What?”

“It hasn’t come back.”

Alfie just stares at him.

“Right, right the crow,” he mutters, finally “Well, don’t you worry about that, alright? As I said, he’ll come back when he pleases. It’s good for him to stretch his wings, innit? And there are other crows out there. Crow friends.”

Tommy nods and crawls in under the blankets again. That makes sense.

“Try to just stay there for now, alright?” Alfie says. “Better stay off your feet for another day or two. Give them a chance to heal.”

Then he bends to pick up something from the floor. He flips the hot-water bottle over in his hand and sighs, muttering something incoherent as he leaves the room.

Tommy pulls his knees up to his chest, suddenly realising that he’s shaking. It’s somehow colder now than he was sitting by the window.

Alfie returns and drops the bottle down onto the mattress next to his face.

“Well it’s fucking freezing in here now, innit?” he says and nods towards it. “And you seemed to like that yesterday.” Alfie’s expectant look makes Tommy grab the bottle and pull it against his chest. It does feel nice. Alfie sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Now if you excuse me I’m going to have some breakfast, if you can manage to survive on your own for two goddamn seconds.”

With that, he stomps out of the room.

Tommy hugs the bottle a bit tighter to his chest.

He tells himself that tonight he’ll do better, and he’ll stay in bed.

….

The bullet is still in his head. It’s still there, and that’s why it’s all wrong. If he just digs it out, maybe he can make his head whole again and it’ll start working? If it does, he’ll be useful again, they’ll need him-

Everything hurts. His ears are ringing with the pressure, it’s echoing loudly inside his head as he lies there face down in the mud. The hot blood that trickled down the side of his face has cooled, along with the air around him.

It’s gotten very cold. And dark.

No one is coming.

He can’t get up, can’t make any sounds except muffled noises because of all the mud, but he tries. It comes out as a pitiful little whimper.

No one is coming.

The pain shoots through his head like a hot iron rod and he scratches weakly against his skull.

If he can just get the bullet out-

Suddenly there are hands there. Real, strong hands that pull away his own from his head. But they don’t understand, he has to-

Alfie is looking down at him, eyes oddly wide and face pale in the grey morning light. He holds up Tommy’s hand before him, staring wildly at it. The fingers are red with blood, but there’s no mud-

Now, Alfie’s mouth moves. Maybe he’d be able to hear if it weren’t for the ringing in his ears, the sound of too fast breaths, his heartbeat. He struggles, because he can still feel the metal tearing into his skin. Alfie doesn’t understand. If he can just get the bullet out-

Alfie holds onto his wrists and he tries and tries to get lose, squirms and tries to kick. A slap burns across his cheek and he whines in pain. 

“Tommy, for fucks sake-“

Why won’t Alfie listen, why won’t he understand?

Alfie shakes him and holds on harder to his wrists, so hard it hurts. He presses them down against his chest, pinning him against the mattress. Tommy keeps fighting.

“Tommy, listen to me-“

No, no, no-

He manages to somehow dig a knee into Alfie’s side, eliciting a grunt, but it can’t have been too hard of a blow because he won’t budge.

“Now that’s fucking it-“

Suddenly he’s facing down against the mattress, arms twisted behind him and with a knee digging into his back and it hurts and he can’t breathe- Can’t move and he can’t see and there’s mud in his mouth and lungs and he’s going to suffocate. He lets out a panicked yelp that turns into a scream when he realises he can’t move an inch.

“Tommy, fucking hell, you’re okay.”

Alfie’s voice is there in the darkness right close to his ear. Fingers twist into his hair, turning his head to the side and pressing it against the pillow. It hurts and a pained whine escapes him.

“Alright, try to just listen to me. I don’t know where you are in that head of yours, but that doesn’t matter because you’re not actually there now, are you? You’re in Margate.”

No but-

“And you’re alright. Well not alright, per say, but you’re living and breathing and… yeah trying to kick me in the fucking balls which is just all around incredibly rude-“

His mind seems to somehow latch onto Alfie’s voice and he finds it pulling him somewhere. Out of the darkness maybe. The mud and the fog.

He’s not on the field anymore and he missed-

“And now I just need you to breathe in and out, which might be difficult given the current position. But as long as you keep trying to fucking squash my family jewels with your scrawny knees I’ll have to keep you like this, alright?” 

He missed, so there’s no bullet there to find. Why did he miss? He can’t remember… That part is always like a black hole in his mind. The memories that do resurface sometimes, blurry and faded at the edges, are always of afterwards.

Of lying out there on the cold, muddy ground. The pain and the cold. That no one came- Darkness fell, that slow, creeping darkness that signifies night. And no one came.

He didn’t ask himself why.

“You hear that, Tommy? Just breathe and try to fucking relax.”

But he can’t breathe. There’s no air. But he suddenly realises that even if he wanted to continue fighting it’s impossible. What little strength he had has drained completely from his limbs.

“There we go, that’s more like it, yeah? Not that hard is it, to just… not try to actively fucking hurt yourself, hm?”

He just gives in. Sinks into the mattress, into the darkness blurring the edges of his vision.

“So, you gonna be a bit more agreeable, eh? How about it?”

Alfie’s voice floats away.

He’s vaguely aware of the grip around his wrists loosening, and the weight disappearing from his body. But he doesn’t try to move. His body feels very heavy suddenly. And when Alfie rolls him over he just lets it happen, falling limply against the mattress and finding himself gazing at the ceiling, far away and full of bright lights that dance before his eyes.

“And now we try to fucking pay attention-“ Alfie grabs his face, fingers tight around his jaw. And Tommy forces himself to focus on that. He’s got deep wrinkles on his brow, his one good eye glinting sharply down at Tommy, settling on the side of his head. “Fuckin’ hell just one thing after another with you, innit? Impossible to get even one peaceful morning around here…” He looks towards the door. “Esther!”

The hands are still gripping onto Tommy’s arms, warm and firm but not painful anymore. Footsteps come towards the room.

“What on-“

“Don’t you look at me like that, woman, it‘s not like I fucking did this,” Alfie grunts at someone. Esther. Tommy keeps looking at his face and nowhere else. “Alright? I’m just trying to keep him from making it worse. Get the first aid kit, will you?”

The footsteps leave again. With a sigh, Alfie lets go of him and shoves the blanket into his hands. Tommy buries his fingers in it and drags it all the way up to his nose. Alfie smells just like the blanket.

Esther returns after only a moment. She cleans his bloodied hands, and the scratched up scar. Wraps a bandage around his head. “Just so it’ll be easier for you to leave it alone, alright, love?”

Then she changes the bloody sheets.

Alfie paces, having abandoned his spot on the bed the second Esther entered.

And once Esther has wrapped the bandage around his head, he leaves the room altogether, muttering something Tommy can’t pick up. Esther stays. She sits in the chair next to the bed and talks quietly to him. He’s too tired to quite hear it. 

She stays by his bedside almost the whole day, only leaving for short moments at a time. Which is when Alfie comes into the room, pacing or just sitting in the chair. He talks, but Tommy can’t piece together the sounds into actual words

There’s something different in his eyes, something that glints underneath the frustration.

For a moment, Tommy thinks it might be worry.

But it can’t be.

It doesn’t make any sense. Why would Alfie worry?

He must be mistaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're right back to the angst... I apologize. But I promise there will be more comfort soon! Thank you so much for reading, and please do share your thoughts -it always makes my day to read them.


	7. Sun Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Tommy's condition worsening, Alfie decides to try something new.

“Well, the good news are that his feet look alright. I’ve taken the bandages off,” Esther says as she enters the kitchen where Alfie is currently pacing. There’s been quite a lot of that these past few days, pacing, and for some reason he felt the need to do it in a different room today.

“Yeah, well, that’s a small bloody comfort,” he mutters. “What with absolutely everything else is going straight to hell.”

Esther sets the tray down on the kitchen table.

“Give it some time, Sir. He’s obviously been through a lot.”

“Well who hasn’t,” Alfie grunts. “Who fucking hasn’t?” Then he sighs and indicates towards the piece of bread still on the tray. “Still not eating anything, then?” Esther smiles a mild, tilted smile and shrugs.

“Well, he did eat some of the soup. It’s better than nothing.”

Alfie is overwhelmed by an uncomfortable feeling that maybe it’s _not _better than nothing. Maybe _better_would be to just let Tommy fade away… Seems like the more merciful thing.

No, the truly merciful thing would’ve been to shoot him down at the beach.

He shakes his head to rid it of the thought, because he’s fucking told himself to let that whole thing go, and agonizing over it isn’t helping. Instead he focuses on the practicalities; reminds himself to call Ollie tomorrow and get some intel on Birmingham. See if word’s gotten out that Tommy is missing. Really, he should’ve done it already, but it’s a bit hard to focus on things like that when you have a demanding fucking houseguest that needs babysitting at all hours…

“And you’re sure you don’t want me to stay?” Esther asks and pulls him from the musings.

He waves his hand dismissively. “Your afternoon off is your afternoon off. And I know for a fact that you’ve been looking forward to visiting that sister of yours. We’ll survive a couple of hours on our own”

Esther is still frowning as she unties the knot in the apron and hangs it on a hook by the stove.

“But you have to promise to be gentle with him, Sir.” 

Alfie rolls his eyes. “Fuck, woman, he’s not an abandoned kitten we’ve found in some cardboard box…”

Good analogy that, it may be at odds with the bird one but it somehow feels quite fitting too. Esther is not amused.

“May I remind you, Mister Solomons, that the last time I left you two alone-“

“No, you may not fucking remind me, I get it.” Alfie puts both hands up in a gesture of defeat.

Esther gives him a final, stern look. “All I’m saying is that I better not come home tomorrow and find him beaten all black and blue again.”

Fucking hell, the nerve of this woman…

“You have my bloody word. Now go.”

Esther leaves, but only after another reprimand, some intel on the food situation in the house, and saying yet again that Alfie needs to: ‘be patient with him, poor thing, today isn’t a good day’. And fuck Alfie is moments away from regretting his decision before she’s finally out the door.

After debating with himself for a bit, he reluctantly goes to check on Tommy. On his way to do that, he passes the living room and sees the blue sky outside the glass doors. It’s been a few days of rain, but now the sky is clear, and the wind is nothing but a gentle breeze. He allows himself to linger and tries to somehow store that peaceful scenery inside himself for what is bound to be yet another frustrating and worrying interaction.

Bracing himself, he opens the door to the guestroom.

The room smells of nightmares and fucking… sadness and sweat. As if the misery is just seeping out of Tommy’s pores. Which isn’t surprising considering he’s spent the past four days in that bed without a proper wash, because baths haven’t exactly been a priority.

But spending all his time in a bed doing nothing but talk to ghosts and being utterly lost in various delusions can’t be doing anything for him.

Alfie thinks of the blue sky outside.

And is suddenly all out of his already lacking patience.

He walks up to the bed.

Tommy is gazing at some spot on the wall, the circles under his eyes dark and his skin ghostly pale. There’s only a tiny sliver of blue visible beneath his eyelids, but it’s enough for Alfie to see that he’s indeed awake. Or whatever you may call this state.

He starts off by shaking him quite roughly.

“Oi, Tommy, you’re getting out of this bed.”

Tommy doesn’t react.

Alfie’s hand flies up on pure instinct, but he stops himself at the last moment, letting it drop back down to his side. Instead he painfully crouches down in Tommy’s line of sight, stares straight at him and grabs onto his shoulder.

“Hey, you’re getting out of this bed and into a bath. It’s non-negotiable.”

Finally, Tommy’s gaze shifts to him.

“A bath?” he repeats, a tiny wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. Good. Not completely beyond reach today, then.

Alfie nods. “Yeah. And then we’re going for a walk. The weather is brilliant and if there’s one thing life has taught me it’s that it’s just not healthy to lie around and give yourself too much time to think about things. And you truly should listen to me because not only am I a God, but I also possess the wisdom of just a very old man-“

Tommy blinks at him.

Ignoring the lack of enthusiasm or just acknowledgement in general, Alfie straightens up, grabs onto his shoulders and pulls him upright. Only when the blankets pool around the impossibly thin waist does he remember that Tommy isn’t wearing any fucking clothes. Which makes him pause. Then he ambles off to the bathroom, grabs a clean towel and throws it at him.

“There’s a tub in here,” he says, nodding towards the bathroom. “And running water. And not that I really fancy the idea of hanging around watching you bathe, I’m also not too keen on finding you fucking floating around in the water, so I’ll be stayiing”

Tommy just looks at him and bloody hell it’s just all around very fucking frustrating dealing with someone who keeps acting like every word you say is a mystery… Alfie points at the towel.

“Go ahead, then. Out of that bed. I can even do you the favour of filling the tub like the fucking saintly man I am. All you need to do is take that towel and get in here.”

He turns and stomps into the bathroom and to the tub, turning the knobs to get the water running. Fuck he really should wait with this until Esther is back tomorrow. Why didn’t he do that? She’s well versed in dealing with this little lunatic by now, and in giving baths. Why on earth would he start on a mission like this on his own?

He pours a glug from a bottle on the edge of the tub into the water and the room fills with some florally scent as bubbles begin forming. Just as he’s about to go back and drag Tommy out of bed by the hair, the door creaks and Tommy appears on the threshold with the towel wrapped around his waist and with that blanket Alfie gave him draped over his shoulders, leaving very little of him uncovered.

He eyes first Alfie and then the bath very dubiously but without any actual glint in his eyes. Just this dull sort of nothingness.

Alfie turns off the water. The bath is just about half full, but that’s going to make it a bit more difficult for Tommy to drown himself in it.

“Get in,” he says and points at it. “I’ll be right outside this door and mind you I’ll be fuckin checking on you.”

Tommy just stares at the bath, but the only option other than physically picking him up and dumping him into it, is to just let him take it at his own pace. And even though that first option is a tempting one, Alfie reckons that would be going too far.

So he leaves the room and closes the door behind him.

“Just so we’re clear, I’m right outside. So don’t try anything,” he says and taps a finger against the door for good measure.

Then he listens for any sound of movement. But either Tommy is being awfully quiet or standing stock still. Feels pretty fucking ridiculous to be standing out there, but what’s a man to do?

There’s a bit of quiet splashing and then more silence.

Deciding to give it a minute or so, he goes to fetch the clothes Esther has laid out for Tommy. She did try to insist on going into town and buying him something that would actually fit, but the weather really hasn’t been permitting any long trips like that. And it’s not like anyone is going to see Tommy, so what does it matter if the clothes are a bit big?

Alfie is certain she’ll return tomorrow with clothes anyway.

With the garments draped over his arm he knocks on the bathroom door.

“You okay in there Tommy?”

Silence.

“Know you’re not very fond of the whole… talking bit, but you’ll have to make a noise or I swear I’ll come in there.”

Still nothing.

These days, that’s about all it takes for Alfie’s heart to get stuck in the back of his throat. And he tugs the door open without a second thought.

Tommy is sitting in the tub, knees drawn up to his chest and surrounded by mounds of white bubbles, eyes glassily fastened on the opposite wall.

“What part of ‘make a noise’ do you not understand,” Alfie hisses and dumps the clothes down on top of the marble sink. Tommy blinks and glances at him, flinching as if Alfie just appeared out of thin air. And Alfie takes one of those slow breaths in through his nose that he’s practiced these past few days.

And doesn’t yell at him.

Or slap him over the face.

“You doing okay?”

Tommy nods.

“How about we try to start using words every now and then, eh?” Alfie says and scratches his beard irritably. “Let’s try that again. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Tommy says quietly and hunches his shoulders a bit, shifting ever so slightly to curl up tighter into his already tightly wound ball of limbs. Doesn’t look very comfortable or relaxed at all but that would probably be asking too much. 

“Brilliant. I’ve got some clothes here for you.” Alfie gestures to the pile. “They’ll be too big but that’s just something you’ll have to live with. So if you just do less fucking staring and more getting cleaned up, we can go out for a bit.”

Tommy doesn’t move, save for raking his nails across his shoulder.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

“Right, Tommy,” he says. “I know everything is very new and difficult but you do remember how to take a fucking bath don’t you?” 

If the lack of response is anything to go by, clearly no.

The next deep breath comes out as a sigh with perhaps a bit too much frustration in.

“Right, so just clean yourself up a bit. Don’t have to dunk your head in if that’s… if that’s too much right now. Just wash some of that nightmare sweat off.” 

Alfie grabs a stool from the bedroom, sets it down on the middle of the floor and turns his back against Tommy. “And I’ll just sit right here and stare very carefully at this wall to make sure we get some progress here. See, I can hear if you’re actually doing something besides sitting there staring.”

He can somehow feel Tommy’s eyes boring into the back of his neck and he crosses his arms resolutely over his chest.

“Yeah, this is fucking strange, I’m well aware,” he grunts. “But I’ve made the informed decision that you’re in no state to be left alone, or you’ll just sit there until the water turns cold. And I’m not fucking bathing you. As much as all of my previous behaviour contradicts this, I’m not actually a bloody nurse. So you’ll just have to do it yourself, alright?”

Silence for another moment.

Alfie wonders if it’s physically possible for a body to just explode from pent up frustration. Surely that must be a thing?

Then there’s a tell-tale sound of water moving and dripping down a body.

“Should be a sponge there somewhere,” he says and tries to somehow hear if Tommy starts using it.

He gives it a few minutes, during which he thinks very hard about absolutely everything except for how fucking strange it is to be sitting in the same room as a naked Tommy in a bathtub.

When it goes very silent again, he glances over his shoulder to find Tommy looking back at him. His cheeks have gone a bit pink from the heat and his hair is curling at the ends from the steam. Fucking unacceptable really, that people get to just walk around and look like that. Alfie would like to take it up with someone. And it’s not like he really pays attention to it but he’s not fucking blind is he? Not entirely at least.

He clears his throat.

“You done?”

Tommy nods. He raises both eyebrows and gets another quiet ‘yes’ instead

He puts his hands on his knees and gets to his feet.

“Well then, Tommy, there are just three more tiny steps that I’d like for you to do, and it’d make both our lives just a whole lot easier,” he says. “Get out of the tub, dry yourself off and put some clothes on-“ Tommy’s eyes have gone oddly glazed again and he snaps his fingers in front of him. “Oi, still talking.” Fucking hell. At least Tommy shakes out of the daze and blinks up at him. “So, steps: out of the tub, dry yourself off, put on clothes. Can you do that?”

Tommy’s eyes narrow just the tiniest bit, and Alfie desperately wishes to see some of that old iciness glint in them. Wishes he’d roll them and say something along the lines of ‘I’m not a fucking child’. Maybe get out of the tub stark naked and-

All he gets is another nod.

“Great. I’ll leave the room for this.” He makes his way out the door, telling Tommy over his shoulder: “Mind you I’ll be back in a few minutes and if you’ve managed to somehow injure yourself in that time I swear I can’t be held responsible for my fucking actions. Alright?”

He slams the bathroom door shut and goes to stand by the window to somehow occupy himself with the view.

Fucking hell it’s only been an hour since Esther left and he’s already contemplating murder.

His mood is marginally brightened a few minutes later, when the bathroom door opens and Tommy comes out dressed in his clothes.

It’s quite a sight. They would’ve been too big for him even years back before the extra pounds around Alfie’s stomach but now he’s is absolutely drowning in them. Granted Tommy’s also shrunk down to barely more than skin and bones. He’s had to cinch in the trousers with a belt because a pair of suspenders would’ve just left it all hanging in a lose sort of tent around him, and the shirt hangs off his shoulders, bony wrists barely poking out under the large sleeves.

Alfie finds himself smirking and gets what almost, by these new measures, could be counted as a glare.

“Right, now all we need is a coat.”

He heads for the hallway, Tommy following a few steps behind.

“Alright, I’ve got a few to choose from.” Alfie sifts through the items in the wardrobe positioned right inside the front door. “All of them will be far too fucking big on you but I suppose we’ll go for the one that’s the warmest.”

He pulls the thick coat out and tosses it at Tommy.

It lands on the floor.

“Well, pick it up, I’m not a fucking maid.” He shrugs into a coat he’s picked out for himself.

Tommy does. Even puts it on, too.

He flinches when Alfie barks out a laugh, but it can’t be helped -it’s just such a fucking _sight _alright? Tommy looks like a child playing dress-up in their father’s clothes.

Once he’s equipped him with a pair of boots, he opens the front door to let light flood into the hallway.

“There we go, let’s see if getting some sunshine on that face will help, hm?”

With that, he grabs onto the coat sleeve and tugs Tommy towards the door, over the threshold and out into the afternoon sun.

The crisp air fills his lungs as he sets foot on the gravel path leading up to the house and he allows himself a moment to just stand there and enjoy it before saying: “See, this is quite nice, innit?”

Tommy is still on the steps, blinking in the sunlight and looking altogether very dazed and lost.

Alfie grabs the coat sleeve again and tugs him along, only letting go once they’re out the front gate.

The walk starts off pretty rocky to say the least. Tommy reminds him of a new-born foal, every step unsteady and unsure. And after an initial bewildered look at his new surroundings, he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the ground. Alfie ignores it and sets off down the path leading from the house and towards a grassy field. Not down to the sea for now, because that would be… an unnecessary challenge.

“Alright, so maybe you’d like to know a little about this beautiful scenery, hm?” he says as they walk down the path, surrounded by frost painted grass. He gestures towards an patch of greenery in the middle of the field. “Yeah, those, of course, are trees. To the untrained eye they might all look the same but I am well versed in most things and know better-”

Still talking, he leads Tommy through the field, pointing at various objects that just so happen to be mostly trees and bushes. And since he quickly remembers that botany was never his strong suit he makes up a few facts, because there really is no harm in that and at least it keeps Tommy occupied.

Tommy goes along with it, sticking close to his side. He still looks mostly at the ground, fingers picking at the fabric of the too long coat sleeves, but every now and then he’ll glance up and look at what Alfie is pointing at.

He doesn’t walk fast, which isn’t a surprise considering the state of him. And Alfie isn’t fucking cruel, alright, he adjusts his pace accordingly. It’s not like he wants Tommy to end up collapsing somewhere. But he’s sort of expecting it, still. Almost waiting for it with this sick sense of curiosity, wondering for how long he’ll manage to stay on his feet. But even though Tommy clearly struggles just to keep moving at all, he does stay upright.

It’d be stupid to overdo it, though, so finally Alfie stops by a chestnut tree and turns to face him, almost tripping over him because Tommy clearly doesn’t understand the concept of personal space right now.

“You getting tired?” he asks and by some miracle keeps the frustration from his voice.

Tommy isn’t listening, because he’s looking at a shiny chestnut lying nestled among the leaves.

Alfie picks it up and studies it.

“Funny things these… See, I have this very distinct memory of not understanding where they came from, you know, when I was a boy.” He rubs his thumb over the smooth surface. “There was this huge tree- well, in one of the parks, of course, there weren’t any fucking trees around Camden now, was there? Well, I distinctly remember always being surprised when I found these on the ground, because it felt like they’d just sprung out from nowhere, right? Coming from those prickly shells…“

Tommy finally holds his gaze when he looks at him. Eyes blue as the sky.

Alfie grabs his wrist, turns his hand upwards and drops the chestnut down into his palm. It’s followed by instant regret, because what on earth possessed him to do a thing like that? Doesn’t matter, now it’s done and he lets go of the bony wrist as if it’s burning hot to the touch.

Tommy is busy looking down at the chestnut, thank God, because he’s pretty sure he’s fucking blushing.

He clears his throat and starts walking back in direction of the house.

“Alright, suppose we’d better be heading back. It’ll start getting dark soon. And we’re not moving all that fast-“

A moment later he hears Tommy’s footsteps on the path and soon he’s got him there right by his arm again. And he should probably be annoyed because he’s walking so close that Alfie nearly steps on his feet a time or two. Which, yeah, does fucking annoy him make no mistake. But then he feels a hand grasp his coat sleeve. And instead of annoyance flaring up at the gesture, he feels a tug at his heartstrings. _Fuck, _fuck this is bad_…_He lets Tommy hold on, because he must be getting tired now, so it’s probably for the best.

Sure enough, by the time he unlocks the front door, Tommy is swaying ever so slightly on his feet, obviously exhausted. But at least the cold air and the bath has given him a tiny bit of colour on his cheeks, which does make him look less like a ghost, so all in all this feels like a successful endeavour.

“Right, I suggest you go sit down,” Alfie says and shrugs out of his coat, waiting to see if Tommy will follow his example or-

Lo and behold, Tommy does in fact pull the coat off, putting it back on one of the hooks.

“Since Esther is away for the night you’ll have to make do with my tea,” Alfie says and heads for the kitchen. “But I do actually know how to make decent tea, because what kind of fucking person doesn’t know how to do that? So why don’t you go sit in the living room for a bit?”

“Not the bed?”

Alfie stops at the question. Tommy has just stepped out of the boots and is standing there on the carpet looking very lost.

“The bed? No. No, I think we’ll avoid that for now. Doesn’t seem to be doing you any good.”

He’s just about to head to the kitchen, but a voice in the back of his mind tells him he’s about to make another one of those less than stellar choices by leaving Tommy to fend for himself there in the hallway. So he turns back, grabs him by the elbow in what he hopes isn’t too much of a rough grip and leads him towards the living room.

“There. Sit,” he says and releases him right by the armchair. “And stay there.”

Tommy’s obedience is mostly eerie, but it does come in handy in times like these, and he promptly sits down. And at least it’s a sign that he’s somewhat lucid, because otherwise he tends to do exactly the opposite of whatever Alfie is telling him.

Once Tommy has curled himself into that tight ball he seems so fond of being in, Alfie goes to make tea. He tells himself it’s because he quite fancies a cup, and then he might as well make one for Tommy as well.

When he returns to the living room, it’s empty. He very nearly throws the tray into the wall on pure instinct as a response, but catches himself at the last moment, setting it down on a table instead. Would of course be a shame on the porcelain. Not to mention his quite extensive collection of books residing on the bookshelf that almost became his target.

“Tommy?” he calls out, but is already moving towards the door. Fuck, if Tommy has gone ahead and wandered out into the sea again Alfie will just fucking leave him there. This is too much to ask of a person…

But the door is locked, the key still in the lock on the inside, and just as he turns to find someplace else to search, he finds Tommy standing there in the doorway with a blanket in his arms.

“Thought I told you to stay put,” Alfie grunts before he can stop himself. Tommy curls back up in the armchair, now with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“I was cold.”

Alfie gestures to the large number of blankets piled up on the other sofa. But then he realises that of course that’s the _special_blanket Tommy’s been clutching like a lifeline since Alfie gave it to him.

Right. That explains it.

  
“Well, there’s tea now,” he says and points unnecessarily to the tray. “I can’t be fucking arsed to force feed you, so I won’t even try. Just drink something, alright?”

After getting a fire going, he can finally sit down with a sigh. He’s moved his armchair a bit to put it closer to Tommy’s. Makes it easier to grab onto him if he tries anything stupid. Which, given his track record, he will.

He picks up his book, sets the glasses on his nose and starts reading, deciding he deserves a moment of respite from all of this.

Meanwhile, Tommy drinks his tea quietly. And things are surprisingly peaceful for a while.

The next time Alfie looks up, he finds Tommy looking at the cover of the book, the empty teacup sitting on the tray.

“It’s a pretty decent book, this,” he says and taps the cover. “Well, I’m just on the second chapter, but it’s Austen, so how bad could it be? And before you say anything I’d like to point out that it’s masterful prose, even though it happens to concern fuckin’… rich folks just strolling around on lawns and sighing a lot.”

Tommy keeps looking at him, and this is longer than he usually pays attention so Alfie continues: “See in this part, for example, our protagonist’s just having this very long monologue. And I think it’s about to continue on the next page.” He flips to the next page and hums. “Yeah, yeah see, these people really know where it’s at.” Tommy is still looking at him. He clears his throat and starts reading: “The weather’s been dreadfully grey, hasn’t it-“ he glances up at Tommy over the edge of his glasses. “You’ll have to imagine that being a woman’s voice yourself, alright? Because I’m not doing any attempts at that. Well, anyway-” he clears his throat and continues. “Ghastly, I tell you, absolutely ghastly.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tommy set his head against the back of the armchair, still with his eyes fastened on him.

He finishes the passage where the weather is discussed, and decides he might as well finish the whole page because what could the harm be in that? But when the page is over, Tommy is still paying attention, which is such a remarkable fucking thing that he reads another. And another. By the third page, he feels a slight tug at the fabric of his left shirtsleeve. Tommy has grabbed onto it. And of course it’s right there, on the armrest only inches away from Tommy’s chair, and he did spend a good part of his first day in the house clinging to this very shirt, so maybe it’s not such a strange and momentous thing. But it feels very much like both.

So from then on when he’s about to turn to a new page he puts the book down onto his lap so that he can use only his right hand. If holding onto something keeps Tommy from having one-sided conversations with any of the stuffed birds, or scratching himself bloodied, well then it seems like a small sacrifice to make.

But he’ll just finish this chapter, then it’ll have to be enough. He’s got things to do. Can’t be sitting around here all evening. Not that he can remember exactly what those things were, but it’s a matter of principle, really.

Yeah. He’ll just finish this chapter.

But when he gets to the end of that chapter, he finds himself starting the next one. Just because Tommy hasn’t shifted uneasily or said some cryptic shit for over half an hour, which must be some kind of record, truly. And if that makes Alfie feel more at peace than he has in fucking days and if the way he’s curled up against the armrest and pulled Alfie’s arm a bit closer makes him feel some type of way, then that’s no one else’s business is it?

And neither is the fact that when the sun begins setting outside the window, he’s still reading. Truth be told he’s so engulfed by it that he only notices because the low rays shine into his eyes. He places the book on his lap, spine up, and looks out the glass door.

“Now, that’s really, in the grand scheme of things, why you should have a house by the beach, innit, Tommy?” he says and nods towards the view.

Tommy glances out the windows and makes a little affirmative noise. Which feels like a victory. He’s still holding onto the shirtsleeve, and Alfie’s arm has somehow ended up all the way on the armrest of Tommy’s chair. He pretends not to notice. Like it’s just some lose extremity that’s lying there and not at all attached to his body by the shoulder.

He switches on the table lamp and continues reading. It’s rather nice, reading out loud. Strikes him he’s never really done that before. Cited things, sure. He gladly takes every opportunity to use words from people wiser than him, few as they are, especially if it serves to illustrate a point. But he’s never really read out loud before.

When he finishes yet another chapter, it’s quite dark in the room, so he looks over to Tommy to see how he’s dealing with that. Would be unfortunate if there were more of those scratching incidents, is all…

Tommy is asleep; the fingers of his right hand curled loosely into Alfie’s shirt and with the blanket pulled all the way up to his nose. His left hand is resting in his lap, clutching a small object. It takes Alfie a moment to realise that it’s the chestnut.

He blinks. And is annoyed that an almost giddy feeling of relief swells in his chest, because the sight of Tommy finally relaxed, eyes closed, lips slightly parted and with every line on his face smoothed out, has no business making him so happy.

Right. Tommy’s asleep. Means he can get some uninterrupted time to himself to just… exist and not have to worry about him every fucking second.

Well. It won’t hurt, just sitting here for a bit and making sure he stays asleep.

As if on que, Tommy shifts a little and frowns. Lacking better options, Alfie opens up the book and starts reading again, as soft and quiet as he can. Tommy settles down again and he feels himself relaxing back into his armchair.

And if he falls asleep in that very armchair a few hours later with the book on his chest and Tommy still sleeping soundly next to him, well, no one has to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There has been some comfort! No hug yet but I do promise that's what the future holds. Thank you for reading and please share your thoughts and feelings, it always makes my day <3


	8. Like I'm not made of stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are ups and downs, food continues to be an issue and Alfie loses his patience once or twice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Times are crazy as I'm scrambling to finish my final paper/thesis (academic terms are difficult in english) But here's another chapter! I hope you'll like it!

”Sir, perhaps you could move him to the bedroom tonight?”

The voice wakes him up. But it’s an odd way of waking up, one he’s not used to anymore. Rather than being violently startled awake or just floating from one nightmare to another, he’s left in more of a soft, warm darkness, limbs heavy and only barely hearing the voices. Familiar voices, but not the bad ones, the ones everyone keeps telling him aren’t real.

”I’m not fucking carrying him around,” Alfie grumbles. He does that a lot. Makes his voice come out as that low, rumbling noise. Tommy likes that. “If he wants to sleep in the armchair he can fucking sleep in the armchair. Seems to have worked out fine the last… three days. It‘s better than not sleeping at all, innit?” 

”Yes, but he always wakes up sooner or later, and I really think he might manage the whole night if-” there are footsteps, and the voices fade. He sinks a bit deeper into the cushions. It’s okay, he won’t have to go back to that room. He’ll get to stay here, where it’s warm and safe and there’s no door that can be closed.

The darkness pulls him under again.

…

It’s quiet when he wakes up the next time. Quiet and much colder than before and his legs ache from being pulled against his chest for so long. He stretches them out, reluctantly facing the darkness as he opens his eyes and looks around, spotting the usual things in the room that always remind him of where he is. The shelves full of books and odd trinkets, the painting of a grassy landscape, the armchair where Alfie sits when he reads in the afternoon. The book is there too, on the table with a piece of paper sticking out to signify where he left off.

The silence of a house where everyone else is asleep is different from any other. And the room that has begun feeling almost safe at any other hour of the day suddenly feels all wrong. It’s too quiet and too dark and too cold.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a glimpse of white fabric. He grabs onto the blanket and digs a hand into the pocket of the too large trousers, fingers clasping around the chestnut. Closing his eyes he tries to sort among the shards in his head, put enough of them together to find something real to focus on, remember what’s happened.

They went for a walk, and then Alfie read a book, and then he fell asleep. They’ve done that- how many times, just once?

There’s a sound somewhere in the room. Fabric swishing. He breathes, tries to push away all the other thoughts and just focus on the round smooth surface of the chestnut in his hand. Tries to recall what’s happened in the book, but it’s difficult because he fades in and out of it. Sometimes everything else is too loud and all he really hears is the sound of Alfie’s voice itself, without being able to decipher the meaning of the words… But he did read, of that he’s sure. And they went for a walk. A bit further than the chestnut tree this time, to gathering of thorny rose bushes without leaves. And the day before that Alfie showed him a large oak with a hole in it. Tommy thought that perhaps the crow lived there until he remembered that crows build nests.

The room is empty when he opens his eyes, but it still feels like someone is there just right outside his field of vision.

Esther told him he could wake her up…

“My room is through the kitchen and then to the left. I’ll leave the door open and if you need anything, anything at all, if you get scared or hungry or just need a bit of company, you can wake me up. Alright?”

He nodded when she told him, but he won’t wake her up, doesn’t want to be more trouble than he already is. But he can’t stay in here, that’s all he knows, so he gets out of the armchair, bringing the blanket along with him. It’s always so cold everywhere at night. As long as Alfie and Esther are awake there’s always a fire burning somewhere.

He’s a little dizzy, so he has to hold onto the wall for a moment before venturing out into the hallway and slowly making his way to nowhere in particular. Maybe he could go to the kitchen, just to see if it’s warmer there?

And somehow it’d feel safer, because Esther wouldn’t be as far away. 

Alfie’s house is big and full of things. Bookcases and shelves full of odd trinkets. There are animals there as well. He doesn’t like those. They stare at him with their glassy eyes, reminding him of the crow that still hasn’t returned.

But it seems odd that Alfie would have a crow. That doesn’t make any sense. He tries to fit the pieces together. Something blurry resurfaces, Alfie holding that bird and-

“It’s fucking stuffed, alright?.”

But he saw it move and fly and then it came to his window. Tap tap against the glass.

That doesn’t make any sense either, birds don’t do things like that, and no one would have a crow as a pet, not even Alfie. Tomorrow he should ask Alfie about it, or maybe Esther. Esther wouldn’t get angry.

He reaches out and touches the smooth feathers of a raven on top of a cabinet. It stays still on its perch, glassy stare and cold to the touch. It’s real but it’s not alive, just like the others, that makes sense. There’s a fox next to it and he hesitates for a moment before letting his fingers brush through the soft fur.

He continues carefully running his fingers along the objects on the shelf as he walks. Soon he passes the guestroom but he doesn’t go inside, because he doesn’t like it, it’s quiet in a bad way and the corners are so dark…

Then there’s the door to what must be Alfie’s bedroom. He stands there outside of it, listening. Some light snoring comes from behind the door. Feels strange to think of Alfie asleep in a bed. An image of him sprawled out on his back, taking up the entire mattress with his large frame appears in his mind and he- he wants to knock on the door, wake Alfie up and ask if he will read to him, or just _be _there, real and solid and filling the silence with his voice.

He quickly moves away from the door, continuing down the hallway. The floor rocks ever so slightly underneath him.

“You shouldn’t wander around, Tommy.”

Lizzie carefully puts a hand on his shoulder, so light that he can barely feel it. “Let’s get you back to bed. The doctor says you need to rest.”

He hugs the blanket tightly to his chest and just breathes. This is real, not the other things. He tries to pick those pieces out, sort them away, just focus on the ones he knows are real; Alfie, the walks and the trees, Esther coming in with tea, Alfie’s voice being a gentle, distant rumbling and the fabric of his shirtsleeve soft and warm under his fingers…

When the voices fade, he begins moving again. Down the corridor to what might be the kitchen, he’s never been in this part of the house before.

Suddenly he’s hit by another wave of dizziness and grapples for something to hold onto, stumbling and just barely catching himself against a shelf. It shakes, and there’s a loud crash. It sends his heart racing and makes his breath catch in his throat.

He looks down to find the floor full of broken shards, sharp and glimmering in the faint moonlight spilling in through the window. Like a sea of crystals or-

“Sapphires maybe?”

The shards are blue, but it must be the moonlight, it’s just glass, nothing else-

He picks one up, has to touch it, just to make sure. The sharp edges gleam.

“You could make a necklace for yourself, Tommy, like the one you gave me. It’d be pretty. Match your eyes.”

He doesn’t want to look at the glass anymore, but he doesn’t dare turning away either, afraid of what he’ll see. His pulse thuds dully under the thin skin on his neck, right under his jaw, pumping blood through the veins so close to the surface-

“It’s so easy. And quiet too.”

No, no it’s not real. He doesn’t have to listen. 

But the glass is real, it’s just glass but it’s real and if it’s real, he has to pick it up, or someone will be angry. He starts gathering up the shards in his hands, carefully putting the small ones in a larger piece so he won’t cut himself.

“Tommy?”

The shards clatter to the floor as he flinches. He scrambles to pick up the pieces again and footsteps approach. Lizzie comes toward him, a worried wrinkle between her eyebrows.

“What are you doing out here?” she asks, and he can never answer, because what is he supposed to say?

That no one ever comes anymore. And the room is so quiet and the bed is cold and he just didn’t want to be alone. But it’s a selfish and stupid thing to think. “Aren’t you enough of a burden on this family already? Do you need to be waited on at all hours too?” 

He shakes his head, focuses again on gathering all the glass up. Lizzie will be angry, like she was after the mirror-

“Oh, put those down, love, I’ll take care of it.”

It’s not Lizzie standing there before him, it’s Esther, calm and steady as ever with just a small extra wrinkle between her eyebrows. She crouches down next to him and soon the blanket is draped over his shoulders.

“Go on, so you don’t cut yourself.”

“I didn’t mean to-“ he whispers as he puts the glass back down, surprised to hear his own voice.

“No, no of course not, accidents happen. Now come here, we don’t want you stepping on it.”

He lets himself be moved backwards a few steps, eyes fixed on the glass. 

It has lost its bluish tint and Esther appears by his side again with a broom. He reaches for it.

“I can-“

“Nonsense, I’m a professional after all,” she says and the dimples are back in her cheeks as she starts sweeping the glass into a pile. “Honestly this was for the best. An absolutely awful vase, that-

“Is it too much to ask for one fucking night of undisturbed sleep? What’s going on out here?”

Tommy flinches even though the gruff voce is familiar.

Alfie’s hair is sticking out at odd directions and he’s clad nothing but his shorts as he comes down the hallway, limping ever so slightly. He somehow looks even bigger without his clothes, large muscles and expanses of warm skin... For some reason Tommy finds himself staring at his broad chest, eyes transfixed on all the new things. 

“Oh, nothing Sir,” Esther says. “Just a little accident.”

Alfie looks at the glass as Esther sweeps it all up in a pile, then at Tommy, eyes narrowing.

“An accident, eh?” he comes closer and towers over him. The heat seems to radiate from his skin and he wishes he could lean into it. “You sure about that?”

He grabs his wrist -maybe to give him another chestnut?- but no, he just bends his fingers up to inspect his palm.

“Mister Solomons what-“

“You got any of it hidden away, hm? Figured this would be an easier way out than the bloody sea?” Alfie looks into his other hand and palms his thigh in search of a pocket. It’s all too much suddenly and a pathetic whine escapes him. Alfie pins him with a hard gaze. “I fucking swear, Tommy, if you broke that fucking thing on purpose, I’m going to make it easy for you and wring your bloody neck right this second.”

“Mister Solomons, that’s quite enough!” Esther says sharply and takes two determined steps towards them, grabbing onto Alfie’s arm. Alfie is still staring at him with those wide eyes but he takes a step back. Tommy averts his gaze to the floor, to the blanket that’s ended up there again. He wants to pick it up, but he’s afraid another dizzy spell will come over him.

Alfie is already angry, he doesn’t want to make it worse.

Esther huffs, “You could at least have made yourself decent before storming out here to yell at our guest.”

Alfie makes a noise of offence but she just puts her hands on her hips puffs her chest out. They stare each other down. Then, Alfie throws his hands up in defeat.

“Fine, why don’t you fucking handle it? I’m going back to bed.”

Tommy finds himself staring at his broad, retreating back. The muscles around his shoulders ripple as his arms move.

“But I swear if he ends up bleeding out on the carpet somewhere I’m not fucking dealing with it,” he barks. “And stay away from the one in the living room, I like that thing.”

The door to Alfie’s bedroom slams shut. 

Esther snorts and picks up the blanket, draping it over Tommy’s shoulders again.

“The manners of that man, honestly,” she mutters and glances at the clock standing on one of the shelves. “Know what, it’s almost morning anyway, so there really is no point in going back to bed now. How about you come with me to the kitchen for a bit?”

Tommy finds himself being led through the dark corridor before he can figure out an answer.

He’s never been in the kitchen. It’s nice. Reminds him of the kitchen at Watery Lane, but larger, cleaner. Maybe it’s just the feeling of… home it exudes. Seems like an eternity since that was home.

“There we go,” Esther says and puts a cup of tea down in front of him on the table. “Now, I’ve had a dough proving overnight, so it should be right about done.” She sets a large bowl down onto the table and rolls her sleeves up.

Soon, the room is warm from the heat of the oven, and Esther is standing up to her elbows in dough.

“So, love, is there any food you like?” she asks, wiping across her forehead with her wrist and leaving a white trail of flour there. “See, I’m nothing if not stubborn. And it’s good that you can manage the soup, but we really should try getting some solid food into you.”

Tommy rubs his stomach. Thinks of the dirt filling every cavity.

“Maybe something your mum used to cook when you were little?”

One time, dad came home with strawberries. And had it been up to him, the rest of his siblings would’ve made a away with most of them. But mum took them and distributed them equally- She gave him an extra piece of bread too, with butter, which was a rare treat. “You go ahead and eat this too, sweetheart. You’re smaller than John.” 

He shakes his head.

Esther hums and starts forming the dough into loaves. “Well, we’ll figure it out eventually.”

The door opens and Alfie enters, clad in trousers with the suspenders dangling by his sides and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up. 

“Thought you were going back to sleep, Sir,” Esther says cheerily and begins arranging the loaves on a sheet tray. 

“Impossible to fucking fall asleep at this hour,” Alfie mutters and lifts the lid on the teapot to look inside, muttering something incoherent as he goes to fetch a cup. “If certain people could just fucking stay put instead of wandering around the house like some restless bloody spirit it’d make all of this much easier. I could use some undisturbed sleep.”

“Well, Sir, you have all day to sleep if you’d like to,” Esther says and covers one of the loaves with a towel, setting it aside. “Or would that get in the way of any important obligations?”

Tommy freezes. But Alfie just glares and pours tea into his cup.

“Remind me again why I hired you.”

“Because no one else would put up with you, Sir,” Esther quips and covers the second tray.

Alfie grunts something unintelligible, but sits down by the table. Tommy thinks he can see the corner of his mouth twitch, and he feels something stir in his chest. Something besides the dull ache that usually resides there.

The kitchen is quiet for a while, but right then, none of the voices come back.

Esther refills the teacups, and Alfie flips through a paper, occasionally humming and muttering things to himself.

Soon, the room is filled with the scent of warm bread.

“Now, if this doesn’t help that appalling appetite of yours I don’t know what fucking will,” Alfie says and nods towards the bread when Esther takes it out of the oven. “Think you might be a lost cause then.”

Tommy wraps an arm around his stomach as he watches Esther cut the bread into slices. She sets a piece down before him. He’s not sure how to explain the mud, that he can’t eat because of it. They’ll think he’s crazy, tell him it’s all in his head. And it is. Must be, because it’s not- people can’t be full of mud like that, can they? But what does it help telling himself that when he can feel it filling up his insides like a cold, heavy lump?

He rubs his stomach. It feels like the mud goes all the way up the back of his throat, making it impossible to swallow.

It’s not really there. It’s just like everything else, not really there. And he has to eat.

Lizzie tries to explain it to him the first time the men show up.

“I’m sorry, Tommy, but this is the only way-“

But then she leaves the room, and it’s just the doctor and those men in the white shirts left.

He shoves weakly against all the hands as they force the tube down his throat. It hurts and he can’t breathe, it won’t fit, and all the mud is in the way. Lizzie comes to stand in the doorway and he tries to reach for her, she won’t let them do this, she’ll tell them to stop- But she just looks at him with sad eyes.

He picks up the bread and takes a small bite. It seems to grow in his mouth but he chews and swallows. His throat closes up around it.

“There we go, that wasn’t so bad now, was it,” Alfie chuckles. “Don’t have to look like you swallowed a fucking insect.”

He takes another bite and tries to chew it more this time.

The faces around him are all set in nothing but cold determination and it makes no difference how hard he fights them. Tears trickle down his cheeks and he gags around the intrusion in his throat.

“Please, Tommy, they’re only trying to help.” 

He tries to swallow, but the bile rises in his throat. Gagging, he slams a hand over his mouth and somehow makes it to the nearby sink before he’s vomiting. Bile and blood and mud from the field… 

He just wants the tube gone, but they won’t listen, just keep forcing it down his throat no matter how many times he gags and chokes around it.

Again and again he retches, even when nothing except bile comes up.

“Oh, of course that’s what we’re fucking doing now. Fucking hell, it’s too bloody early for this bullshit. I’ll just leave you to it.”

Dishes clatter, a chair scrapes, and then Alfie’s muttered curses fade along with his footsteps. A door slams.

Tommy is vaguely aware of the humiliation burning in the pit of his stomach and a sob escapes him before he can stop it.

“Well, Mr. Shelby, if you start eating on your own we won’t have to do this,” The doctor says when they finally remove it and he coughs and weeps and-

His legs give in.

-and when the hands finally let him go he curls up into a ball under the covers, arms over his head and hearing his own sobs as some distant echo in his ears.

The hands come back, but they’re softer this time. Fewer.

“It’s alright. We’ll take it slower. You don’t have to force yourself into anything,” Esther says and rubs his shoulder. She hangs the blanket over him too. But he can’t face her. Can’t face anyone he’s-

“Pathetic, useless-“

Maybe if he digs the bullet out-

“No, no none of that,” Esther takes his wrist firmly in her hand, pulling it away from his head. “Nothing will get better with you hurting yourself.”

It’s not there. His head is just damaged anyway. Can’t be fixed.

“Alright?”

He nods and Esther releases him. There’s a bit of movement. 

“Here’s some water. I’m putting it next to you, so you can drink it when you’re ready.”

Esther gets to her feet but doesn’t leave the kitchen. She potters around, humming to herself and whistling occasionally. He focuses on all of those sounds and none of the others.

The shame has turned into a dull ache in the pit of his stomach and right then, it feels impossible to ever look up again, he just wants to stay like this. But finally the darkness under his arms become too much so he peers up just a little to see what Esther is doing. She’s washing dishes, and as if she senses his gaze she glances over at him and smiles.

“It’s okay. We’ll stick to the soup for a bit longer. No point in eating if it’s making you feel like this.”

He nods and can breathe a little easier, taking the glass and washing away the taste of bile in his mouth. Esther nods too and goes back to the dishes.

“I know he might not seem like it, but he’s worried, that’s all,” she says suddenly. “Mister Solomons. Sure he might hide it under a lot of… gruffness and cursing, but he cares. Just doesn’t always know how to show it.”

Tommy hears the words but they don’t make sense. Alfie has no reason to care.

He stays there on the floor until Esther finally comes and leads him over to a chair. And then he sits there instead, quietly watching her. Until the kitchen door suddenly opens.

Alfie is standing there, clad in a coat and with a hat perched on his head. He clears his throat and scratches his beard. Then he tosses something at Tommy. A second coat.

“Figured we should stick to the walks,” he says. “You know, keep the routine and… what not. Mind you if you decide to start fucking vomiting over that coat-“

Esther clears her throat loudly and Alfie glares, before gesturing at Tommy.

“Well, go on, put it on.”

Tommy finds himself obeying.

It’s cloudy outside, and the field is swept up in fog as if some of the clouds have fallen out of the sky. Alfie talks as usual and he sticks close to him, gravitates towards him without understanding why. Maybe because Alfie is solid and real and _there _and if he’s close enough maybe that will be enough to ground him, keep the voices at bay…

No one wants him this close, it’s annoying and clingy. But Alfie doesn’t seem to mind. He minds plenty of things, but not this.

He’s brought the chestnut along and he holds that in his hand, squeezing it tightly. 

“I got you something,” Alfie says suddenly and digs a hand into the giant pocket of his coat. “Or, well, Esther did, really.”

Tommy stops in his tracks and stares down at the packet of cigarettes.

“Got them while she was into town, yesterday. Really shouldn’t be fucking indulging this habit of yours. Smoking is for people who fucking eat. But things can’t exactly get any worse so I figured this wouldn’t make a difference. Go on.”

Alfie holds the packet a bit closer, before sighing and picking one out himself. Tommy flinches when he shoves it against his lips and latches onto it out of pure shock. Alfie grins and his eyes crinkle at the corners. His eyes are kind when he smiles like that, even the hazy one- He lights the cigarette without asking and when the scent fills Tommy’s nose, it’s as if his body acts on its own accord, sucking the smoke into his lungs, fingers pulling the cigarette from his lips as he exhales it into a cloud. Reacting on some half forgotten instinct, he rubs the cigarette over his lips before putting it back between them and the gesture makes something spark in his chest because it’s real and normal and the first normal thing he’s felt in so long and-

Alfie is staring at him with an odd expression on his face. Then he makes another one of those grunts that could mean anything, and starts walking again. Tommy follows. Gathers himself and focuses on making his voice work.

“Thank you.”

This time it’s Alfie who stops in his tracks and Tommy steps on his heel, flinching when he turns around. He waits for an outburst of some sort.

Alfie just blinks and clears his throat. “Yeah, well, it‘s just fucking cigarettes, innit?”

Then he continues walking. Tommy tries to keep some distance as he follows this time. 

Without a word, Alfie turns, grabs onto his coat sleeve and tugs him closer.

“It’s better if you stay there. Don’t want you wandering off somewhere, right? Could lose you in this fog. Not to mention the tall grass.” He barks out a laugh. “Yeah, you’re a tiny little thing, aren’t you?”

Tommy frowns.

Alfie laughs again, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “Oh but would you look at that? Could almost pass as a glare, that. Nothing compared to your usual glower but it’s getting there. Who would’ve thought cigarettes were such a good medicine?”

It’s hard to keep frowning when Alfie’s face looks like that, all bright and happy. So Tommy just takes another drag on the cigarette and walks a little closer to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! A little bit less actual Alfie/Tommy interaction in this, and more angst. But it's all part of my long term... master plan. Please talk about your feelings, it always makes my day <33


	9. Be where you are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie makes a call and shares some of his findings with Tommy afterwards. He probably should’ve chosen his words more carefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a crazy month but I'm back with more angst just in time for the holidays! I haven't managed to answer all of the kind comments on the last chapter yet -I prioritized getting this posted, but I'll get to it shortly!

“-And Michael Gray is apparently head of the company. Seems like Shelby has stepped down from that position. Though word is he’ll still be involved in some capacity once he gets back,” Ollie finishes off the rather lengthy and somehow still useless status report from Birmingham. Well, _mostly _useless.

“From his, what was the word, extended leave of absence?” Alfie grunts.

Ollie’s hums and then goes quiet.

Alfie waits.

“So, is that all, then?” he finally asks.

Silence. He can almost hear Ollie’s confused frown.

“Is there… supposed to be something else, Mister Solomons?”

“No, there’s- just keep your ear to the ground, alright?”

Thankfully Ollie has learned not to question him by now. Well, mostly. So he promises to do that, without asking about the sudden interest in the Shelby family’s every move.

When Alfie hangs up, he has to just sit there in the study for a moment to let all of it sink in. Figure out what to do with this information. But when he eventually goes to search out Tommy, he still hasn’t quite decided what to do.

….

Knowing Esther is in the kitchen, he follows his gut and finds them both there: Esther doing the dishes and Tommy sitting by the table with his blanket in his lap and a mug of tea in front of him. No food, of-fucking-course. But he leaves that business up to Esther now -anything to save himself from repeating yesterday’s display, really. And yeah arguably he didn’t handle it in the best possible way but what can really be expected of him? To stand there and hold Tommy’s fucking hair while he throws up whatever meagre portion he’s managed to eat? That’s where he draws the line. And really Esther seems to be far more capable in this department so it’s probably for the best to leave the food issue up to her. And it must be Esther who’s placed the teaspoon of honey next to the tea mug. He’s got no idea what that is supposed accomplish, but again, not his problem anymore.

Instead he gets in Tommy’s line of sight to catch his attention.

“So, you fancy a walk then, eh? About time for one of those before we lose the last bit of daylight, if you can call it that, what with there being a distinct lack of sun today.”

Tommy nods and Alfie raises both eyebrows, making him clear his throat and muster a quiet, “Yes.”

Alfie nods his approval and gestures towards the spoon.

“Go on then, try to swallow that down and come along.”

What happened to staying out of anything food related?

Tommy just eyes the spoon suspiciously.

Thankfully Esther steps in.

“It’d be good for you, Tommy,” she says and glances over her shoulder from the sink, smiling encouragingly. She treats him as if he is made out of glass. And maybe he is. “It’ll just melt in your mouth, you’ll barely feel it.”

Tommy picks up the spoon, and someone up there must really have it out for Alfie because he sticks his tongue out and_licks_it hesitantly, before apparently deciding it’s acceptable and putting the whole thing into his mouth. And how is Alfie supposed to look at those lips and not be overcome by confusing feelings and have his belly coil tightly and fill with heat?

And then Tommy takes the spoon out and his tongue darts out and swipes over his bottom lip.

Alfie turns around and leaves, barking some order for Tommy to hurry the fuck up.

…

Once they’re outside, he does his level best to focus on absolutely everything except Tommy for a while, making observations about the trees and the weather and telling him an entirely made up story about how a large enough group of crows could technically carry a live dear through the air.

Tommy smokes and seems uncharacteristically focused, eyes fastened on Alfie and listening with what could almost be something akin to actual interest. Which makes Alfie deem this an appropriate time to bring up the phone call. He’s not entirely sure what the purpose is. Or rather, he’d rather not admit said purpose to himself; it’s some impulse that’s lodged inside of him that just can’t help poking and prodding at Tommy’s fragile psyche and see what will happen…

“So, I had an interesting phone conversation earlier,” he says once Tommy has finished his first cigarette. “Had a word with a reliable source about the situation in Birmingham. And it would seem that you, mate, would you fucking believe, are on an extended leave of absence.” He looks over to Tommy to gauge the reaction. Tommy’s eyes shift to the ground as he shoves one of his hands into his pocket and starts picking at the buttons on the coat with the other. 

“At least that’s the official story. Nothing wrong at all, you’re just having some well earned time off. Meanwhile that cousin of yours is in charge.”

Tommy fishes out another cigarette and the lighter.

“Yeah, they seem to be doing just fine, from what I’ve heard,” Alfie says. Tommy’s hand trembles ever so slightly as he lights the cigarette. “And alright, to be honest I find it a bit strange, don’t I? I can understand the need to keep up appearances, but… I feel like they’d have better luck actually finding you if more people knew, you know? If the police was involved, for example. Incompetent as they are you’d think they’d want to use every available resource.”

The smoke itself seems to tremble in the air as Tommy exhales another lungful. And for some reason it feels like a victory, finally seeing him react to something, anything besides his own thoughts and stuffed crows and invisible fucking voices.

“And I mean, they don’t know, right?” Alfie goes on. “They have no clue you’re here with me, out of harm’s way, mostly. No, as far as they know you could’ve been… kidnapped. Or lie dead in a ditch somewhere. So, really, I reckon that their first priority would be to find you, rather than, yeah, keeping up appearances. But clearly, our views differ there,” he has to pause to breathe, can feel himself getting riled up. “Because really, from the outside, it looks like they’re not looking for you at all.” He pokes and prods, can’t help himself for some reason- “Really must’ve done something to piss them off because, if you look at it from this angle, right, it’s as if you never even existed.”

-Pokes and _tears _at the remnants of Tommy’s mind, as if he’s looking through the pieces to find something, anything of the old him hidden in there somewhere, something that will make him protest. Always used to bite where his family was concerned.

Used to.

Now he just keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the ground and pulls in more smoke that he exhales in that same, shaky breath. Timid and meek and won’t even look him in the fucking eye- And it’s that, innit? That fragile, confusion, as if he’s made of thin, thin glass that could shatter at any moment, that evokes strange feelings he didn’t ask for… And how, _how _is it that no one in that fucking family is out there looking for him? That he’s got fucking no-one, that it’s all suddenly resting on Alfie’s fucking shoulders?

“Go on, Tommy? What’s changed?” he spits, harsher than he intended. “Always been like… rabid fucking dogs, your family, whenever one of you lot is threatened. But here you are, miles and miles away from home, meanwhile they’re living on as if nothing’s happened. Can’t tell me it doesn’t hurt a little.” 

Tommy shakes his head. Of course it fucking hurts. ¨And he should be angry… fucking livid.

He trails his fingers over the scar but Alfie leaves him be. Can’t be fucking bothered to take his hand away. And maybe he’ll grab onto him too hard and Tommy will shatter under his touch. 

“Though I suppose you’re not of much use to them anymore,” he says. “I mean you’re hardly in any shape to be fuckin’ running that bloody empire of yours.”

Tommy shakes his head and takes the cigarette from his lips, his hand is shaking so hard that it falls onto the damp ground. His fingers are still trailing along the scar.

“I know,” he says quietly. And it’s not the fucking answer Alfie wants. His pulse is quickening, he can feel it throb against his temple and he huffs out a laugh that comes out as mocking even to his own ears.

“Is that how you people operate, eh? You outlive your usefulness and then you’re discarded? Like some racehorse that’s broken its fuckin leg…” 

Tommy stops in his tracks and ducks his head, scratching lightly against the scar. Alfie stops too.

“Nothing works anymore,” he whispers and seems to shrink before his eyes. Alfie wants to shake him, wind a hand into his hair and fucking force him to look up, twist so hard that it hurts and that bleak sadness will crack up into pain instead, force him to fucking _feel _something. Do something- maybe struggle, fight back. He doesn’t grab Tommy. But what he does do is almost worse…

“Yeah that’s an understatement,” he snorts. “You’re properly fucking cracked in the head. Which is saying a lot considering the state it was in before. Maybe they felt like it wasn’t that much of a loss, eh?”

Tommy flinches as if he’s been hit. Curls inwards on himself.

“I know,” he says. “I know, I know-“ his voice turns into these quiet little whimpers and he squeezes his eyes shut as he begins scratching against the scar feverishly- Alfie pitches forward and grabs his wrist, tugs it away from his head.

“Alright, fuckin’ell, Tommy-“ he says, the guilt welling up so quickly that it smothers the anger. “Fuck, calm down-“

Fuck, you fucking _fucking _idiot-

“I can fix it,” Tommy gasps, staring at him with wide eyes. “I can- I promise, please, I’ll fix it- I just have to- have to get it out and- and-”

He swipes for Alfie like an alley cat and Alfie grabs onto his other wrist and tugs them both against his chest. A knee comes up and narrowly misses his crotch and he has to fight the instinct to put his fist into Tommy’s face for that. Instead he takes both of the bony wrists into one hand, pins them against his chest and wraps the other arm around his back, tugging him close enough to remove his leverage. Tommy squirms and makes those awful, half choked noises that sound less like a human and more like an injured animal, but Alfie just holds onto him.

“Fuck ‘em,” he says. “Don’t have to fucking fix anything. They’re not worth all of this.”

There’s another moment of frantic struggle before Tommy suddenly stops, pushing his forehead against Alfie’s chest instead and pulling air frantically in through his nose. His whole body is shaking.

“Fuck ‘em,” Alfie repeats, trying to soften his voice. “Alright? You hear that?”

Tommy says nothing, but stays right where he is. His breaths come out in hot little bursts against Alfie’s chest and his pulse is racing underneath his fingers but he’s finally still. Alfie keeps holding the arm around his back but loosens the grip around his wrists. Cold fingers wind themselves into his coat as Tommy pushes himself closer, face still buried in his chest. Right then it feels like the only thing holding him together is the arm Alfie holds stiffly around him. 

He leans in just a little bit. Tommy smells like soap and smoke and something innately… _Tommy _that he can’t quiet put his finger on.

“What the hell have you done to yourself, eh, Tommy? What’s so awful about all of this that you can’t even _think_about it?”

Tommy just shakes his head, but he’s still now. And the urgency of the position has faded, he becomes painfully aware that it’s far too close. He clears his throat and gives Tommy a shove, making him stumble backwards on unsteady feet, blinking and looking dazed.

“Right. We should… probably be heading back to the house,” he says and starts walking back along the path, thankfully hearing a pair of footsteps behind him.

Tommy is painfully quiet the entire walk home. Alfie’s gotten used to the silence by now, but this is different. Wrong.

“I’m sure they’re looking, alright,” he says once it finally gets to be too much. The silence, or the guilt. “Might not… Well, your family have a way of doing things without anyone noticing, don’t they? Probably worried sick about you- I mean, you’ve got- those kids, right? And that wife of yours. Yeah. I’m sure they’re looking.” His throat is all dry so he has to pause and clear it before continuing, “But it’s not like you actually want to be fucking found, from what I understand, so I don’t see why you have to get all upset about it.”

Fuck, that sounds fucking stupid even to his own ears.

Tommy says nothing.

Alfie gives up on talking for the rest of the walk, and doesn’t open his mouth until they’re finally inside again.

“Right, I’ll ask Esther to make some tea,” he says as he shrugs out of his coat. “And then we’ll see if pompous man number five will finally propose to that lady who complains a lot in the next chapter-“

He heads for the living room and only discover once he’s halfway there that Tommy hasn’t followed, but is instead veering off towards the guest room. Which he hasn’t entered willingly since Alfie dragged him out of bed four days ago.

“Oi, where are you going?”

“I’m tired,” Tommy says quietly without looking up, fingers clenched around the edge of the door. “I should sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah sure, but you can do that just fine in the armchair.”

“I shouldn’t be out of bed. The doctor says I have to rest.“

He’s got that glazed look in his eye, Alfie just barely catches it before he slinks into the bedroom, leaving him standing there in the hallway with an alarming tightness in his chest.

He goes to pace in the living room, shoving tobacco into his pipe and lighting it. Tommy’s blanket is still in the armchair.

The footsteps approaching are too determined to belong to Tommy, who pads around the house like a kitten, and he barely has time to reflect on the fact that he does indeed recognize his footsteps by now, before Esther’s voice interrupts that thought.

“So, would you like some-“ She pauses. “Sir, where’s Tommy?”

Fuck. Just what he needed.

“He’s sleeping. Or, yeah, he’s in bed, alright?” He chooses not to turn around for no particular reason. It’s definitely not just to avoid seeing Esther’s disapproving look.

“He’s in bed?”

Alfie hums. “Yeah, so if you could just make some tea a that would be-“

Esther’s footsteps are disappearing down the hallway. Yeah. Fucking of course. He huffs out a puff of smoke and finds a cloud outside to fasten his gaze on, and vainly hopes that it’ll somehow distract him from the feeling currently settling like a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach.

When Esther returns, he’s come up with no good excuses and done nothing except stare very intently at the same cloud.

“Did something happen while you were out?” she asks.

Alfie clears his throat and scratches his beard, watching the cloud be swept away by a gust of wind. “No, nothing that comes to mind, no.”

The silence is getting to him so he turns around. Esther is frowning. Doesn’t look angry, just worried, which makes the whole thing worse.

“Nothing out of the ordinary?”

“Nothing about this is fucking ordinary,” Alfie grunts, wishing she’d launch into a lecture instead of looking so bloody worried. “What? He’s always acting fucking irrationally. Who knows what’s upset him this time. Maybe he just saw an… imaginary bird that made him sad for some goddamn reason.”

Esther nods thoughtfully, the frown deepening. “I’m going to make him some tea, but perhaps you could go and sit with him? I don’t think he should be alone.”

She leaves

Fuck all of this.

Alfie finds himself in his study again, staring at the phone.

One call.

The thing is he does actually believe Tommy’s family is worried. Who fucking wouldn’t be? It’d be fucking cruel not to be. Heartless. And heartless is hardly the first thing that comes to mind when he thinks of the Shelbys. Ruthless perhaps. Arrogant and fucking cocky. But not heartless.

But despite the call to Ollie, he’s no closer to piecing together the gap between the failed assassination attempt and Tommy showing up at his doorstep. The only pieces he’s actually got is Tommy’s wrecked mental state and the scar. Clear enough that he’s tried to hurt himself, yeah, and done quite a good job of it too. Even after the phone call, there are too many pieces missing. But if that family of his was actually capable of even somewhat looking out for Tommy, he wouldn’t be in such a shit state.

Then again, Alfie is clearly failing spectacularly at that himself, looking after him. 

Ollie could come pick him up. They could pay someone else to drive the last bit, someone the Shelbys have no knowledge of, and deliver Tommy at the doorstep of that big mansion of his. Tommy is hardly in any shape to resist. Could even be a gentleman about it and make sure someone opens the door too, see to that Tommy is taken care of.

And he’d be rid of this problem. Maybe avoid doing more damage. Logically speaking, it’s the right fucking thing to do.

Alfie picks up the phone, puts a finger to the dial and stares at it.

Three digits in, he puts the phone back and leaves the study.

And soon he finds himself standing outside the guestroom instead, with Tommy’s blanket in one hand and the book in the other. He opens the door without knocking.

The small lump on the middle of the bed remains motionless as he crosses the floor

“Scoot over will you?” he says and plops down onto the mattress, narrowly avoiding just sitting down on top of said lump. Folding down the blanket, Tommy blinks up at him. Alfie tries to not linger on the red-rimmed eyes and the wet lashes because he doesn’t care for the implications. He gestures for him to move.

“Go on, give us some space here, eh?”

Tommy sits up, still looking almost comically surprised and moves over to the farthest edge of the bed. Alfie rolls his eyes as he starts building up a sufficient mountain of pillows against the headboard.

“Don’t have to fuckin’… sit on the floor now, do you? _Some _space I said. Which, given the usual standards would be somewhere around here. You know? That’s your half.” He gestures from the middle and out to the edge. Tommy still chooses to settle at the very edge, watching him with big, wary eyes.

Alfie tosses the blanket at him and leans back against the pillows, flicking the lightswitch on the lamp on the nightstand before perching his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“Now, where were we? Somewhere around page… ninety I think.” He flips through the pages and watches out of the corner of his eye as Tommy wraps the blankets around his shoulders and settles back against the pillows, a tiny bit closer. “Hm, yes, yes there we go. They’ve just arrived home after this whole… carriage debacle, yeah? Remember that? Very traumatizing event probably- Let’s see how they’ll possibly move on from that.”

He’s got Tommy’s full attention when he starts reading.

After three pages, Esther comes through the door. Alfie can see her eyes light up all the way from the bed, but she wisely forgoes commenting.

“Here’s some tea for you,” she says, addressing Tommy. “And a bit of soup. I thought you might be getting tired of the same old thing, so this one is potato and leek. But it’s nothing too different.” She sets the tray down on the nightstand on Tommy’s side of the bed. “Sometimes that can be difficult, new flavours and textures and all that.” She hands Tommy the mug, nodding towards the tray. “And there’s bit of that honey that seemed to go down alright earlier.”

Alfie doesn’t particularly care for the smile Esther shoots him as she leaves the room. As if she knows, or perhaps sees something he doesn’t…. On account of there being nothing to see or know, of course, so what business does she have, looking that way?

Going back to the book seems to be the safest bet to postpone all of those thoughts, and as he reads, Tommy obediently finishes almost all of the soup and then promptly occupies himself with the teaspoon full of honey, leaving it lingering between his lips for longer than what would be necessary.

“Can’t believe you can stomach that,” Alfie says and tries to not look to closely at his lips. “But who would’ve thought, eh? Tommy Shelby has a bit of a sweet tooth. Like a hummingbird.”

Tommy actually huffs at the comment, looking almost indignant.

“Yeah, yeah exactly like a hummingbird, in fact,” Alfie goes on. “See, they only eat nectar, don’t they, so they’re quite particular about their food. Tiny little things, too. Always moving about.” The imagery makes him chuckle. Tommy sucks on the spoon and he looks back down into the book. “There’s this myth, right, that if a hummingbird stops flying its heart will stop, but that’s of course bullshit, because no animal could function like that.”

Tommy narrows his eyes a little, giving the spoon one last lick before putting it back on the tray. He settles his head back against the pillow and turns onto his side, watching Alfie expectantly.

“I take it this conversation is over and you’d like to go back to the riveting story of… lawn discussions?” Alfie taps the cover of the book, but goes back to reading without expecting an answer.

One chapter later, Tommy’s head tips against his shoulder and it’s just pure luck that Alfie manages not to jolt in surprise. Tommy’s eyes are closed, long lashes resting lightly against his pale cheeks, lips parted ever so slightly and without a single one of all those sad, pained lines etched on his face.

Whenever Alfie sees him like this, he feels like maybe he’s not a complete disaster at this after all. If only for short moments at a time.

As carefully as he possibly can, he closes the book and slides off the bed. But he leaves the bedside light on as he leaves the room.

It feels strange to have a moment to himself, so he uses it wisely by smoking and listening to the radio for a bit, watching the sunset outside. There’s been no sun to speak of today, but a sliver of orange is visible right where the sky meets the sea.

Knowing Tommy is finally sound asleep in a proper bed does make him more relieved than it has any business to, because maybe this will mean he sleeps the entire night through? One can always hope.

But he’s barely finished that thought before quiet footsteps creak over the floor and he tries to not sigh audibly.

Tommy has brought his blanket and looks wary, eyes oddly wide and fingers wound tightly into the material. Alfie’s learned to notice that look by now. He reaches over and pats the armchair next to him.

Without a word, Tommy pads over and curls up in it, eyes still darting around the room.

“It’s just the radio, innit,” Alfie says. “That’s all.” 

Because he knows.

The explanation seems to relax Tommy a fraction, but he still finds himself getting out of his chair and going to turn the radio off.

As if it’s a perfectly normal and reasonable thing to do.

Then he picks up the book and settles into his armchair.

“Chapter twelve, I believe?”

And then he starts reading. Again.

When he feels the familiar tug at his shirtsleeve, he moves his arm a bit closer. As if that’s a completely normal and reasonably thing too. 

Tommy has closed his eyes again, his breathing already evening out.

Yeah. He might be shit at this, but he has his moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and please do share your thoughts and feelings, it always makes my day to read them! 
> 
> Also this story has some art now -you can check it out on my tumblr (apologies for clunky link) https://whentommymetalfie.tumblr.com/post/189777621952/who-are-you-calling-for-who-would-help-you


	10. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s raining, and Alfie doesn’t want to go out. Tommy decides to go for a walk by himself.

It’s raining today, pouring down in large droplets that drum against the roof and obscure the view of the sea. Tommy watches the runnels of water travel down the glass door from his place in the armchair. The wind whistles against the windowpane, wants to pull him back to that night on the beach, the feeling of waves crashing against him, the voices in his ears-

He tries to listen to the book instead of the wind. It’s a bit easier now. He doesn’t lose the thread of the story quite as often, at least not if he really focuses. But most of all he’s just waiting for Alfie to close the book and tell him they’re going out now. Because it’s after lunch and they’ve read two chapters, that’s usually when they take a walk. Now, Alfie’s well into the third chapter and he finds himself getting anxious at the disruption in the routine, a crawling restlessness that creeps up his spine and makes his heart tick faster in his chest.

Carefully organising and putting enough words together to form a question, he musters up the courage to take the plunge and asks, “When can we go out?”

Alfie pauses and raises both eyebrows, watching him over the edge of his spectacles.

“Out?” He furrows his brow and looks towards the glass door and then back at him. “Thomas, if you think that I’m setting my fucking foot outside in this weather then you’ve truly just fuckin’ lost it, haven’t you?”

Oh.

He’s said something stupid. His cheeks feel hot, and he fidgets at the fringe of the blanket to keep his fingers occupied. Alfie clears his throat.

“Well, what I mean is, this really is no weather to be out in. Right? Entirely unnecessary to be going out when you don’t have to.”

“I can go by myself.”

Alfie just makes an unintelligible noise at the statement.

He tries again, “I won’t go far.”

“Fuck, Tommy, you’re not going outside in this, alright?” Alfie snaps. “It’s non-fucking-negotiable. Which, really, I can’t believe I have to tell you. Then again you have absolutely no self-preservation, do you?”

And that’s the end of it.

Tommy pulls the blanket up all the way to his nose and looks out at the rain, trying to ignore the unease and the pressure building behind his temples, the threads of a headache gathering up there.

At some point, Alfie falls asleep. He only discovers it when light snores pull him from the fog of his own mind, and he must’ve missed that he stopped reading. The book is resting on his chest and it’s entirely possible he’s told Tommy that a nap was in order. It’s the sort of thing he could’ve missed.

Alfie looks different when he sleeps. Not younger, exactly; the fine lines and wrinkles are still there. Softer, maybe. The way he does when he smiles. And he looks at peace, hands clasped over his stomach and chin tilted forward. But scars are not something that just fades away simply because a person is asleep, and the contrast is stark against his otherwise peaceful features.

“Anyone you touch, Tommy…”

He tears his eyes away and looks out through the glass doors instead. The rain is still pouring down outside. The room feels stuffy in a way it usually doesn’t, like the air has gone stale, or run out. Like the walls are closer.

He wants to wake Alfie up.

“It happens when you stop, Tommy, when everything stops-“

When it’s quiet and he’s alone…

He takes slow breaths in through his nose, trying to will the headache to settle. Presses the palm of his hand against the ridges of the scar.

If he just got some air, things would be easier.

If he just keeps moving.

Alfie is usually adamant about going outside, even when Tommy is tired and just wants to sit in the armchair and listen to him read. “Why should he always get to decide?” a tiny voice whispers. He barely understands it at first. It doesn’t sound like the others. Maybe it’s his own?

Going out in the hallway to put the coat on feels familiar and completely alien at the same time, as if he’s a child sneaking out past their curfew.

“Can’t be going to the stables at all hours, Tom. Nights are for sleeping. The horses will still be there when you wake up.”

“It’s not night,” he mumbles back, slipping for a moment.

It’s not night, and there are no horses. He moves the chestnut from the pocket of his trousers to the coat, focuses on the smooth surface until his mother’s voice fades back to a hum together with the rest of them, and then he opens the door and steps out onto the front steps.

The rain feels like a relief as it patters over his skin in icy drops and he pulls long breaths of the cool air into his lungs as he sets off towards the small path Alfie usually takes him along. The drops fall heavily against his hair, seep down his temples and seem to soothe the ache and the itch there.

Still, the path feels different without Alfie here. Different without the background hum of his voice, without the presence of his sturdy frame there right next to him. But he trudges on along the field until he reaches the chestnut tree, and then the old oak tree with the hole where the crow doesn’t live. Crows lives in nests and Alfie’s crow lives in a closed cabinet now, but that’s because it’s stuffed. He told him so the other day, because he got sick of Tommy asking about it… He tries to remember the things Alfie’s told him on their walks. He can’t remember too many, but it keeps him from slipping back into the abyss of thoughts and memories that lurk just beneath these new ones.

Soon, he reaches a split in the path. Alfie’s never walked further than this with him. He just stand there, gazing out over the fields and the grey clouds. As far as the rain allows him to see, there’s just that, vast, grassy fields, shrouded in rain and mist. The droplets hang around him like a curtain.

The loneliness of it all is suddenly overwhelming

If he disappeared, if the earth opened up beneath his feet and swallowed him up, nothing would change, and no one would notice. It did out there on the field that day, the mud gave away and devoured him and maybe he’s never really existed after that? No one is looking for him. He should be relieved, like Alfie said. Not looking means they can’t take him away, can’t lock him up somewhere. But instead it just opens up a pit in his chest. Seems to split him apart from the inside and the pain makes his knees go weak. He supports himself against the trunk of the tree, head pressed against his forearms where they rest on the rough bark. It’s for the best, it’s for the best, it’s what he wanted, isn’t it? To simply disappear and fade into nothingness…

“But it hurts now that you have, doesn’t it?”

The wetness seeps in through the knees of his trousers as he curls inwards on himself at the bottom of the tree, the weight pressing down on his shoulders finally becoming too much to carry.

But Alfie said-

Alfie said-

They’re not looking.

“Fuck’em, they’re not worth all this.”

A branch above him rustles. Alfie’s crow is there, watching him with curious eyes, head cocked to the side. Maybe it’s gotten out of its cabinet? “It’s stuffed Tommy, see? It’s not real.” It croaks loudly and flaps its wings, if he takes it back home, Alfie will be happy-

His heart is beating quickly in his chest and the cold is creeping in through his coat. It’s all too much. Everything. Getting up, making his legs obey him, moving at all-

  
“It’s better if you just stay here and rest for a bit.”

“No,” he whispers. Doesn’t want to hear it. “No, I’m- I have to go back.”

“Why?”

Why? Because he wants to go back to Alfie. Alfie will get angry, he was last time, because he did go out looking- But why would he do that? Tommy still can’t wrap his head around it, Esther tells him he cares and she seems to know most things but she must be wrong about that. Sometimes he can trick himself into thinking it’s true. When Alfie came into the bedroom and read to him, even though Tommy had been annoying and difficult. Or when he lets Tommy hold onto his sleeve. Why would he do that if he didn’t care?

“Well, Tommy, you know you’re not right in the head. Just because you don’t understand his reasoning doesn’t mean it’s not there,” Grace explains patiently. “Alright? It’s better if you don’t think for yourself.”

That’s true, but who is he supposed to listen to then? He’s not allowed to listen to Grace, because she’s not real, not real, not- He wants to listen to Alfie wants Alfie to be here, just be here solid and warm and loud he shouldn’t have gone out by himself- If he just goes back to the house it’ll be okay, he won’t be alone and Alfie will make the voices stop, but he can’t move...

He breathes, just breathes, in and out and the mud isn’t real and the voices aren’t real, he closes trembling fingers around the chestnut, wills all the other voices to stop and tries to hear Alfie’s, imagine his arms, the feeling of being held, grounded…

“Tommy!”

He squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t make them stop on his own.

They keep calling, from far, far away, and he struggles to place them-

“Tommy, fucking hell you impossible, absolute bloody idiot…” Footsteps approach, uneven and heavy on the muddy ground. “Esther, come’ere, I found him!” A hand hooks under his arm and tries to pull him upright. “Go on, up you go… I’m not getting my clothes all muddy.”

But his arms seems to have frozen around his knees and he’s shaking so hard and he can’t focus on anything but breathing-

“Fuck, come on now-” The hand, Alfie’s hand, pulls harder, and another grabs onto the back of his coat and he finds himself hauled to his feet through sheer force. But his legs won’t cooperate. Pitching forward, he buries his face in the thick coat in front of him, wants so badly to be close, held- Alfie seems to momentarily freeze before grabbing onto his shoulders and holding him at an arm’s length. Tommy grabs onto the lapels of his coat. Clings.

  
“What the hell were you thinking?” Alfie barks, shaking him, eyes wide and piercingly sharp as they bore into his. “Just fucking… wandering off without saying a word to anyone! Making us comb through the entire bloody countryside.” He starts dragging him back along the path and Tommy struggles to keep up, while Alfie continues shouting: “You can’t just disappear whenever you fucking please! Have us all in a state. Bet we’ll all catch our fucking death now. And just look at you, absolutely fucking freezing-“

“Oh, thank God!” The call comes first, and Esther soon thereafter, appearing in the rainy mist as she runs towards them, hands outstretched and the grey hair escaping from it’s neat braid. She cradles Tommy’s face between her hands and smiles. “Oh dear, you gave us quite the scare. But you’re okay, you’re alright-”

“Yeah, well none of us will be for long if we keep standing around in this rain,” Alfie grunts and keeps walking, still with Tommy’s arm in a vice like grip. “Fuck, couldn’t you have at least said something? Can’t close my eyes for a few bloody minutes without you doing something stupid, can I?”

  
“Mister Solomons, please calm yourself-“ Esther protests and hurries alongside them.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says because it’s the only thing that comes naturally. Alfie stops in his tracks and blinks at him.

“It’s alright, love, we were just worried,” Esther says and her voice is soft and kind.

Alfie scratches the back of his head with his free hand. Tommy turns his gaze to the ground. 

“I just wanted to go outside.” The hard grip around his arm softens.

“Yeah, well, if I’d known it was that fucking important to you I suppose we could’ve… taken an umbrella or something. No need to be sneaking off all alone to get all wet and miserable…” Alfie trails off.

Tommy stares at the leaves on the ground and for a moment all that’s heard is the pitter patter of rain.

“Let’s go inside,” Esther finally decides and resolutely puts an arm around his waist, before taking the lead back towards the house.

When they get back, Alfie storms off, muttering curses under his breath and saying something about needing a change of clothes. Esther brings Tommy, shaking and soaked through, to the bathroom where she fills up the tub. He protests weakly but she won’t have it, and soon he’s sat in the hot water surrounded by clouds of bubbles, knees pulled up to his chest arms clasped around them.

When there’s a knock on the door, he still hasn’t stopped shaking.

“Tommy, you alive in there or have you managed to drown yourself?”

Before he can figure out which one of the questions to answer, Alfie has opened the door. He’s got a hand covering his eyes, as if he has to make a show of the fact that he’s not looking. For some reason, the sight makes the corner of his mouth twitch and the half smile feels so strange that it immediately dies.

“Well, go on, make a fucking sound alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says. Alfie snorts.

“Yeah, that’s a fucking lie if I ever heard one.” With one hand outstretched in front of himself for guidance he takes a step into the bathroom and closes the door behind him. After colliding with the stool that’s been left there and cursing loudly, he sits down with his back facing the tub, resting his elbows on his knees. He’s in a dry set of clothes now, Tommy notes, and is wearing the velvet waistcoat that looks so soft that it always makes him want to rub his cheek against it.

“You getting any warmer?” Alfie asks after a bit. “Or will I have to deal with you getting fucking pneumonia on top of everything too?”

“I’m warm now,” Tommy mumbles. 

Alfie hums and Tommy rests his head on his arm, curling up a bit on his side in the tub. He can still fit his knees against his chest because it’s a huge thing. Alfie’s back is broad. Always been. But he looks bigger now, as if this life has made him settle more in his own bones, rooted him and made him grow. Then again, Alfie did say he was a God now, it makes sense he’d be larger-

“You didn’t go down to the sea,” Alfie says suddenly. “I thought- Yeah, well, I thought you might. That’s why we went out looking, innit. I don’t particularly enjoy running around in the rain, you see. But, yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The pipes whistling quietly is the only thing filling the bathroom as Tommy struggles to come up with something, anything, to say.

“See, I figured you’d fucking jump at the opportunity,” Alfie finally says. “Would’ve been a good one too. With a storm like this it’d be enough to just go down there and stand in the bloody sand. Waves would’ve done most of the job. So, why didn’t you?”

Why didn’t you? It’s Alfie’s voice, Alfie asking, but it’s Grace and his father and John and all of them-

“I just wanted to go outside,” Tommy repeats his phrase from earlier, hearing the crack in his own voice. A knot of guilt twists in the pit of his stomach. It feels like a selfish impulse, now. As if he’s taken something he wasn’t allowed to. As if his whole existence is just that, taking up space and breath and attention that he doesn’t deserve-

“You know you don’t deserve any of this. But all you do is take and take-“

But right then all he’d wanted was to go outside to feel the rain on his face and look out over the fields.

Now, he wants to crawl out of his own skin.

“Right, right,” Alfie says. “Well, some restlessness is a healthy sign, innit. You weren’t made to be cooped up anywhere, now, where you, Tommy? Not in your blood and all that. But do me a favour and tell Esther next time you go out on your own, alright? If I’m not around.”

“I won’t go again.”

“Nah, not what I said, was it? Just want you to let someone know next time. And tell her where you’re going, if you decide to curl up at the foot of some tree again and we need to come get you. We clear on that?” Alfie asks and turns his head just slightly. Their eyes meet, and then Alfie’s gaze slips, scrutinizing him in a way that makes him sink down a bit further in the tub. He nods, hoping that will get Alfie to stop looking at him like that.

“Oi, Tommy, what have we said about using words, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Alfie gets up with a sigh. “If you’ve thawed slightly I suggest you get out of that bath. Esther has dinner ready.”

Tommy gets out of the tub as soon as Alfie’s left the room. The water feels too tempting, too dangerous. He dries himself off with a soft, large towel Esther put out for him, and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The sight of the gaunt, pale face that meets him behind the glass makes him freeze. The figure staring back at him is barely recognizable. He looks… hollow, cheeks sunken in and skin stretched tautly around his jaw, accentuated by the dark shadow of stubble. His collarbones, ribs, every bony ridge and bump stick out unnaturally. Only his eyes are recognizable. Just barely. Because that dejected weariness was there before. He quickly looks away.

No wonder Alfie keeps staring at him.

No wonder no one can stand being close, or touch him-

But Alfie doesn’t mind…

Grace smiles pityingly at him through the glass of the mirror, standing right behind him. “He puts up with it because it’s the only way to keep you somewhat under control-“ 

The urge to drive a fist into the mirror and shatter the reflection bubbles up and he flees the bathroom. He wants to just lay down somewhere, curl up and hide from it all, but the bedroom is terribly empty and cold so he just gets dressed quickly in the dry clothes Esther has laid out to spare himself the sight of his own body. They’re as big as the others, but at least they’re soft and warm. And Alfie’s.

The living room is empty too and he quickly moves on to the kitchen after snatching his blanket from the armchair, and can finally breathe again when he finds Esther there. She smiles at him.

“There you are. A bit warmer, I hope?” She ushers him to the table and sets down a mug with soup in front of him. Right then, Alfie enters the kitchen

“Oh, but would you look at that! Managed to not drown and get yourself dressed in a timely manner, didn’t ya? Incredible.” He grins. He’s got a crooked tooth that Tommy hasn’t noticed before. Maybe it only shows when he smiles like that?

Then, they eat. Or rather, Alfie eats and Tommy tries to.

Swallowing is difficult today. He thinks of that gaunt figure in the mirror and tries, but his throat just closes up. Cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck and he waits for Alfie to snap at him for-

Someone to pin him down, force him-

But Alfie just keeps talking about the deceptiveness of geese, of all things. And he slowly manages almost half of the soup. Esther wordlessly brings out the jar of honey and hands him a teaspoon. That’s easy. It’s just a _taste. _No texture and he doesn’t have to really swallow. He licks the spoon first, to avoid having the whole thing in his mouth at once, which is still difficult.

Alfie stops his talking then for a short moment, seems to lose his thread, and _looks_at him with those unreadable eyes that seems to shift in colour as quickly as his mood. They look green in this light. Tommy quickly turns his attention to the label on the honey jar.

After dinner Alfie simply states they should be getting back to their book, so it’s easy to follow him to the living room where a warm fire crackles. He takes his usual seat and wraps himself tightly in his blanket. 

Alfie begins reading and he tries to pay attention to the words, but that’s difficult too today. As if he’s just all too aware of his own body suddenly, of being in it, feeling all the bony angles jut from his skin, feel how weak and useless all his muscles have become, how he’s just this withered, hollow thing-

No different from his head, then.

The scar itches and he raises a hand to scratch. But another hand grabs it and pulls it back down onto the armrest. He blinks down at the bejewelled fingers holding onto his. Alfie is already looking down into the book again, reading on, but he doesn’t release his hand. The metal of the rings feel cool against his fingers, the warmth of Alfie’s skin contrasting starkly against them. Holding his breath, he waits for the moment when the hand will let go of his, but it doesn’t come. Maybe he should be the one to pull back? But when Alfie’s warm skin meets his, he feels… real and grounded. He doesn’t know why. All he knows is that when Alfie holds onto him like this, he can sink back into the pillows and close his eyes and just _be_, if only for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while -this has been a bit of a struggle, but I hope you enjoyed reading it! And as always it makes my day when you share your thoughts and feelings so please do <3


	11. Are you there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie witnesses first hand how bad the nights are for Tommy, and tries to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! This chapter has personally victimized me and been a pain to write, but I do hope you'll like it! And as always thank you so so much to everyone who's left a comment -I'll respond to all of them tomorrow, but I figured I'd prioritize posting this new chapter. Please enjoy

“-and when I asked what was the matter, answered, she didn’t know; but she felt so afraid of dying. I imagined- Oi, Tommy, you listening over there?”

No, Tommy isn’t listening. Alfie’s almost finished the first chapter of the day when he has to face it. He’s been staring at the same corner of the living room for the duration of the time, eyes glassy and unfocused, fastened miles and miles away. Or at something that isn’t really there. Alfie lays the book to rest on his lap, spine up, and studies him. Waits for him to notice that he’s being watched, despite knowing it’s futile. Looks from between Tommy, to the corner, and then back again. 

”What do you see, eh, Tommy?” he finally asks.

Tommy doesn’t react. Not surprising, because it’s been a bad day. He has those. Well, to begin with there were bad days and worse days. But now there’s something that Alife may hesitate to call _good_days, but at least deem… not disasters. Yesterday was one of those. He took Tommy for a walk despite the rain from earlier in the week still hanging above them in thick grey clouds, and Tommy’s eyes seemed a little brighter, more present. At dinner he even picked at a small slice of apple that Esther set out for him, and though he never actually ate it, even paying attention at all to solid food is a step in the right direction, at least if Esther is to be believed. And then he fell asleep in his bed before migrating out to the living room again. That, that’s what constitutes a ‘not disaster day’, which truly is a sad state of affairs all things considered.

Today, however, is not good. Tommy’s eaten all of one teaspoon of honey for breakfast and Esther took Alfie aside afterwards to tell him she found him wandering the hallway in the middle of the night again, so he must’ve slept poorly too. Granted he never seems to sleep _well._How could he? Alfie still finds him out in the living room every single morning, and say what you will of the quality of his furniture but an armchair is only good for short naps. Sometimes he’ll come out to the living room before Alfie himself has even gone to bed. But at least he sleeps more than those first disastrous days, when he laid catatonic in bed

But he’s far away today.

He keeps staring at the corner, unaware of Alfie speaking at all, and Alfie nearly reaches out, to put a hand on his arm. Touch always works. But for some reason he finds himself hesitating. Maybe since he crossed that line the other day and grabbed his fucking hand… He uses the book to poke him in the arm instead, wondering how hard he can push before Tommy finally pays attention to him. Apparently quite hard. Tommy finally turns to meet his eyes, the blue surface oddly dimmed. Alfie puts the book down and takes a drag on his pipe instead. 

“What do you see?” he repeats and nods towards the corner. “Because it sure as hell isn’t just books, interesting as my collection may be.”

Tommy just blinks slowly at him. Alfie takes the cigarette packet from the table and fishes one out. Tommy’s eyes follow it when he holds it up, and then finally reaches for it, fingers trembling ever so slightly.

Alfie lights it for him once it’s between his lips.

After the first drag, Tommy finally answers: “Nothing.”

“Yeah, see ,Tommy I might’ve believed that. That you’re just lost in your own head, because I know you tend to go on walks in there from time to time. But don’t think I’ve forgotten that whole crow incident.”

“Nests,” Tommy says and nods to himself. As if that fucking means something.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, but do you remember that thing I told you?”

Tommy furrows his brow and he grits his teeth before adding as calmly as he can, “About the crow?”

Tommy nods slowly.

“Stuffed.”

“Yeah, yeah exactly,” Alfie sighs. Back to one worded answers again apparently. “And I know this was a while ago, but you absolutely thought it was real to begin with. Which, I have concluded, means that you’re seeing things that aren’t really there.”

Tommy stares down into his lap, his hand trembling when he moves the cigarette from his mouth and exhales the smoke. “No.”

Alfie snorts, “Yeah you fucking do. So now I’m just wondering what in that corner has you so incredibly occupied that you can’t be bothered to spend any time among the living.”

Tommy reverts to shaking his head, letting the cigarette fall into the ashtray. In fact, all of him is shaking, forehead glimmering with cold sweat and eyes growing wide. This time, this time Alfie catches the signs before he just fucks everything up. He could keep pushing. Feels the urge like an itch he desperately wants to scratch. Wants to cut Tommy’s head open and look inside. He could, that’s the thing, and it’s a terrifying power to have. Learning what buttons to push to provoke a response out of him, other than the hazy stares and the clipped one worded sentences. But is it worth the price of prying Tommy’s bloodied fingers away from his head and pinning him down as he breathes so harshly it sounds as if his lungs may collapse? 

“Fine then. If you say so, mate,” he says and shrugs, taking another puff of smoke and opening the book again. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Tommy relax just a fraction. His eyes are still dimmed, glazed.

He very carefully avoids looking to that corner.

Alfie settles the glasses back on his nose and begins searching for the right page in the book. But Tommy’s presence is so unnervingly anxious and tightly wound that he can’t seem to focus, so he gives up and closes it again, scanning the room in search of ideas. Solutions. His eyes fall on a box on the opposite bookshelf.

“Have you ever played chess, eh, Tommy?”

He has to use the book to poke at him again to catch his attention and Tommy shakes his head.

He doesn’t bother nagging him about talking today.

“Would you like to try? See, I reckon you’d really enjoy it.” He wanders over to the shelf and lifts down the box, wiping away a thin coat of dust before setting it down on the table in front of the armchairs, unfolding the board to reveal the little wooden pieces. “See, these pieces, they all move around in different ways, alright? And the goal is to move them around in the most clever way. Outsmart your opponent.”

Tommy at least keeps his gaze fixed on the pieces as Alfie lifts them up and places them in their proper positions. He makes quick work of explaining how they’re are allowed to move, hoping to keep Tommy’s attention for long enough for any of the information to register. Then he moves one of his pawns two steps forward. 

Tommy just stares at the board. Alfie waits.

After several minutes, throughout which he’s used up all of his patience, Alfie reminds him of how the pawns are allowed to move. Two steps at first, and then just one step. Might as well start off simple. Tommy doesn’t even seem to hear him. Finally he picks up a piece, the knight, unsurprisingly, eyes fastened on it as he lifts it off the board. He pulls his knees up against his chest and just sits there, staring down at small, intricately cut horse head. His gaze flickers over to the corner and he clutches the chess piece close to his chest.

Alfie gives him a moment.

Then another.

“Well, Tommy,” he finally says. “The pieces have to actually be on the fucking board, don’t they? But if I were you, just to help you out here, I’d take that and put it right there, see on G three, yeah?”

Tommy looks fucking crestfallen and that look is enough for Alfie to give up on this whole venture.

“Know what, maybe we should wait a bit with this?” he says and picks the board up. “Let’s just… put this over here, eh and you could- Well, you could just put that back whenever you’re ready, alright?” He sets the board down on a chest of drawers, pushing a lamp and a vase he can’t remember ever buying out of the way until they balance precariously on the edge.

“It’s a bloody confusing game, so it’s best to take it slow,” he says. An attempt at reassuring that he doesn’t understand himself. “And it’s not like we’re in a hurry.” 

Tommy’s knuckles have turned white.

Alfie considers reaching out. Try loosening his convulsive grip around that chess piece before it fucking splinters and cuts his hand…

Instead he just sits back down in the armchair with a sigh and cracking joints, letting silence fill the room.

Thankfully Esther enters moments later to bring some levity to the situation, carrying a tray with teacups and the paper. She gently tries to coax more honey into Tommy, but ends up leaving the spoon on a small plate and giving Alfie a look that clearly states he should give it a try later. But he’s honestly had enough for now. He picks up the paper instead and flips through it, glad to have something to distract him from Tommy and the way he’s begin quivering ever so slightly, still wide eyed and curled in on himself.

On the centre fold he finds a familiar face, the pale eyes staring back at him somehow looking blue despite the photos lack of colour. ‘_Still no sign of Thomas Shelby. The MP remains at mystery location vacation as-‘_He scans the entire article but it contains a frustrating lack of new information and can really be summed up by the headline: Tommy is on vacation to rest up according to his family, but no one cares to confirm where. There are speculations about covering up an illness but nothing concrete. All in all the article is entirely useless. His eyes linger on the photo instead. It’s a fairly recent one. He recognizes the haircut, the hint of weariness seeping through the cracks in that steely gaze. Still, it’s a far cry from the person sitting next to him right now. The cracks have taken over entirely. He quickly turns the pages until he lands himself on the crossword puzzle.

Out of the corner of his eye he notes that Tommy has started rocking back and forth ever so slightly and the cold, heavy fucking stone in the pit of his stomach makes itself known again. Starting to feel like an uncomfortably familiar thing by now.

“Cross words truly are the most unnecessary bloody invention,” he says. “Must definitely be for people with too much bloody time on their hands. Funny to suddenly be one of those people, don’t you think? Listen to this, ‘_occupation frequently treating the back’_. Now that’s bookbinder, innit?” He snatches a pencil from the table and fills in the letters. “And this one, right, this is something for you, ‘_a horse’s gait’ _six letters. See that-“ he shoves the paper in front of Tommy and finally, Tommy blinks, looking down. “Why don’t you give that some thought, eh?”

He leans against the armrest and puts the paper down on top of the table in front of them both, arguably getting into Tommy’s space, and starts reasoning out loud whether a flightless bird is an ostrich or a penguin. “Or it could be a chicken I suppose…”

A few words later, Tommy has shifted in his seat to lean towards his armchair, elbow settled on his armrest. Arguably, this is far too close for comfort, but fuck it, Tommy has finally stopped rocking back and forth, Alfie just values the peace and quiet, doesn’t he? Can hardly be blamed for wanting to keep it.

He does the entire crossword with continuous monologue. By the end, Tommy still hasn’t said a word, but at least he’s stopped shaking. And by the final word, the familiar bony fingers are back clutching Alfie’s shirtsleeve, and the chess piece lies forgotten in his lap.

Small comforts. 

….

“Out of the question, Sir” Esther says. _Out of the question._What has he done for his own staff to believe themselves to have any right to use a tone like that? And she looks at him, scandalized. As if he’d asked her to fucking… smother Tommy with a pillow, and not simply take over the duty of bedtime storyteller. He just needs some space is all. It’s a reasonable fucking request. Been an exhausting day, trying to keep Tommy off the fucking ledge by providing endless hours of distraction by any means he can. Namely solving the crossword of every single old newspaper in the house when reading proved to be insufficient.

So, yeah, it’s been a fucking trying day and he’s all around just very tired and need some bloody space. But Esther is a fucking brick wall.

“I do apologize, Sir, but if we’ve finally found one thing that makes him feel safe enough to fall asleep, then we’re sticking to it,” she says and puts her hands on her hips.

“Oh, he’ll be fuckin_fine_with you reading. He bloody loves you. Always follows you around the house like a lost puppy-“

“He needs the routine, Sir,” Esther says, sharpness creeping into her tone. “I’m not taking that away from him.”

And that’s the end of it. Because he knows, of course, that she’s right.

Tommy comes out of the bathroom just as Alfie walks through the bedroom door, hair wet and cheeks rosy underneath the stubble. Esther has equipped him with Alfie’s pyjamas -rarely worn as he regularly just sleeps in his pants because he runs fucking hot and that’s what blankets are for, and Alfie would’ve smiled at the sight if he’d been in a better mood. The lack of bulk over his shoulders makes the already slightly too long sleeves fall over his hands, and you’d think he’d tire of seeing Tommy in various pieces of too large clothing, but no.

And it does tug at his heartstrings, he can’t fucking help it. He can, however, deny it to his dying breath.

Tommy looks warily at him as he climbs into bed and hides under the covers, that blanket of his piled on top of the others and pulled up to his nose as usual.

“Well, I figured we’d take a break with Wuthering Heights tonight -very much a downgrade from Emma, if you ask me- and try something different,” Alfie says and plops down onto his side of the bed.

Tommy turns on his side and curls up under the covers, watching him almost expectantly. 

He has to resist the instinct to pet his hair, which is an odd one. He taps the cover on the book instead.

“This, see, this is Sherlock Holmes. Ever read it? No, I suppose not. But you might like it. Mysteries camaraderie and light hearted fun.” 

Alfie shoves a pillow in behind his back, sets his glasses on his nose and starts reading. This time, Tommy seems to be listening. 

Only two chapters in, he falls asleep. By some grace of God. And even though Alfie’s longed for some alone time all day, now when he actually has the chance at some, he finds himself lingering, The mattress is soft underneath him and the sound of Tommy’s slow, even breaths pulls him into a sleepy daze. He blinks, eyelids heavy. Tommy’s hair has fallen down over his face. It’s quite long, that part on top of his head, curling a bit at the ends. Alfie would like to keep him like this. Peaceful. Safe. Far away from all the things that plague him when he’s awake. In his dazed state, thoughts like those are harder to keep at bay, they just float through his mind. Don’t have to mean anything, of course, they’re just strange things that occur to him for one reason or another. Like the thought of jumping off a high bridge simply because you pass over it. The thought of reaching out to smooth back those dark curls from Tommy’s forehead…

Tommy sleeps with his hands tucked under his chin. And all curled up, the way he likes to sit. 

One’s allowed to have strange thoughts. Lord knows he’s had his fair share.

It doesn’t have to mean anything.

….

Alfie wakes up at the sound of a heart wrenching whine. Neck stiff and eyes gravely, he blinks and tries to kick his muddled brain into gear. The sound feels as out of place as the heat from the body that’s curled up right next to him, until he realises he’s not in his own bed and that it’s Tommy lying there, trembling and making those godawful noises. Alfie shakes him roughly.

“Come on, Tommy, quit that.”

Tommy doesn’t, no instead his entire body convulses in a spasm and he starts to scream. These hoarse, absolutely fucking terrible sounds.

Alfie hits him. Hard. But he shouldn’t have done that because Tommy’s eyes snap open and he bolts upright in the bed, still screaming, and scrambles backwards on the bed. Alfie just barely manages to latch onto his wrists before he falls onto the floor and pulls him back onto the mattress. Pins his wrists against his chest and squeezes them hard. 

“Fucking hell, Tommy, it’s just a fucking dream!” But Tommy just keeps screaming and squirming and his eyes fill with tears and the screams break into sobs. 

“Don’t let them take me I promise, promise I’ll be good, I’ll be good don’t- don’t let them-”

Alfie grips hard enough to bruise but it does little to help, instead Tommy just chokes on his own frantic breaths and looks so fucking afraid that he begins to fear his heart will actually burst in his chest and Alfie would give just about anything to make it stop.

He releases his wrists and falls down onto the mattress when Tommy scrambles out from under him towards the edge, only just managing to wrap his arms around him instead. One tightly around that far too skinny waist and one around the back of his neck and then he crushes him against his chest and just holds on.

“ ‘s alright, Tommy, ‘s alright,” he whispers, even as Tommy continues screaming with what little voice he has left. “ ‘s all fine, you hear me? All fucking fine. ‘s always worst at night, innit? Yeah. Nights are shit, I know-“

Tommy squirms weakly. Sobs. Alfie keeps holding him.

“But the thing is, they end, don’t they? Yeah. Sun comes up and it turns out it was just the dark playing a trick on ya’.”

Tommy’s breaths come in hot puffs against his chest, and his heart seems to hammer so hard it vibrates into Alfie’s bones. But there comes a moment when instead of fighting, those arms wrap around his back and clings tightly to him, fingers clenching around the fabric of the waistcoat he’s still wearing. And Tommy buries his face deeper in his chest, presses it hard, hard against it and sobs-

Alfie lets him go. Calm enough now, isn’t he? But Tommy in turn refuses.

“Please, please stay, stay you’re never here- please don’t leave-“

As if by their own volition, his arms find their place around Tommy again and he hushes him, resting his chin on the top of his head.

“Who’s leaving, eh, Tommy?”

“Everyone,” Tommy sobs, a hiccup cutting off his harsh breaths. “Everyone leaves-“ 

He’s not awake. Not really, because he never says things like this when he is, as if sleep and the nightmares unlocks something in his head. Alfie holds him and rocks him back and forth as if comforting a small child. For want of better solutions.

“Well, not sure if I’m good enough but… I’m here, alright?” he whispers and runs his fingers through dark locks of hair. It’s a strange instinct but Tommy… Tommy needs it and he’s willing to try anything at this point. Only a fool would turn down perfectly viable options simply due to stupid principles. And Tommy continues whimpering and breathing harshly against his chest and he’s shaking so fucking hard. But he’s stopped screaming at least.

“ ‘s alright, eh, Tommy,” Alfie mutters. “I know things’ve been… they’ve been bad, alright. Don’t know in what way, granted. Jus’ that they have, eh? But here in Margate even bad men like us are allowed to rest. Hear that? No one’s guarding the gates with some long list of all your past misdeeds, no, here you can just come as you bloody well are. And you can just… rest. Easier said than done for someone like you I reckon. But you’re allowed to, see? And that’s the huge difference.”

Slowly, the shaking subsides. Tommy’s breathing calms and the sobs die down to whimpers. But Alfie doesn’t let him go. He definitely should. But how can he, when Tommy holds onto him as if it’s the only thing keeping him from drowning?

So he keeps holding him.

…

The pale, unforgiving morning light pierces through the curtain and through his eyelids. Alfie squeezes them tighter together, trying to shut it out to no avail. Head full of wet cotton and every joint stiff, it takes a while before he can fully register his surroundings. There’s an unmistakable shape of a small body is pressed up against him and soft hair is tickling his face. He opens his eyes just a sliver, squinting in the grey light. In his dazed state it takes a while before he can puzzle together all the pieces. Because it’s a quite bizarre feeling, waking up with Tommy Shelby in your arms.

His first instinct is to push him out of the bed. Which he just barely resists through some miracle. Fuck, _fuck,_this is all around incredibly bad. But he forces himself to just stay right there and figure out what to do.

He glances down at the figure huddled in his arms. Can’t see much except the dark chock of hair and the glimpse of a pale cheek. Long, dark lashes. And he’s _still _asleep. In the bed.

Yeah, however bad of a decision this was, something good seems to have come of it. Alfie did this. He pulled Tommy out of the blackness he was drowning in and now he’s here, in his arms, finally calm. And yeah, Alfie may be a bad man with urges to constantly pick him apart, pry and see how far he can push him but this? This is… better.

Tommy shifts a tiny bit and lets out a soft little sound.

As carefully as he possibly can as to not wake him, Alfie pulls the arm out from under his head and gets off the bed before Tommy can wake and turn this into even more of an awkward situation.

…

  
A bit later, they’re sitting across from each other by the breakfast table: Alfie with his nose buried in a paper and Tommy picking at his breakfast. Thankfully, if he remembers the events of last night, he shows no signs of it.

Well, Alfie thinks he might be looking at him in a strange way, but that could be in his head of course. So he just focuses on the paper and leaves Tommy alone to peck at his apple slice like a fussy bird.

And if Esther noticed that Tommy stayed the entire night in his bed, she doesn’t say anything either. However Alfie is absolutely sure she’s giving him looks.

Which he chooses to ignore too.

….

That night, Alfie opts for the chair next to Tommy’s bed when he sits down to read the mandatory bedtime story, no matter how uncomfortable it is. And when Tommy starts dozing off (he can always tell -he starts blinking in an attempt to keep his eyes open, and curls up tighter under the duvet. Pulls the blanket up all the way to his nose) he puts the book down and resists the urge to groan when he gets out of the chair. Doesn’t allow himself to linger today. The floorboards creak under his feet as he leaves the room, so he barely hears the quiet voice.

  
“Stay.”

He pauses and looks towards the bed, where Tommy has turned around to face him, the light from the bedside lamp catching in his eyes.

“Please,” he whispers.

He shouldn’t. He really, _really_fucking shouldn’t, all logic tells him no. And yet, a moment later, he’s sat down on the bed next to Tommy, shoving a pillow in behind his head.

“It‘s gonna have to be here, then,” he mutters. “Because that bloody chair is absolutely killing my back.”

Letting out a quiet sigh, Tommy closes his eyes. He thinks of picking the book back up but he’s left it on the dresser next to the door and moving from the bed is out of the question. So he just sits there. Tommy is curled up on his side, and his eyes catch on his scar. Can’t help himself.

“Why did you do that to yourself?” he asks

Tommy’s eyes twitch, but he doesn’t open them.

“Did it all become too much at last?”

Still no answer, of course. Why should he expect one? Why is he even bothering asking? Well, because Ollie’s failed miserably so far when it comes to digging out any information about the situation, and it’s hard for a dead man to have too much of a hand in the matter. Which leaves Tommy as the only source of information on what exactly happened between the botched assassination attempt and him showing up on Alfie’s steps.

Which makes it highly unlikely he’ll ever find out.

“See, I’ve got a theory, right, and do stop me if you disagree,” Alfie begins quietly. “You got this idea don’t you, that you answer to no one. Not God. Not even yourself. But that’s not true, innit? See you tell yourself that, and you act as if it’s true, when in fact it’s a bloody lie. And I think you finally stopped for one moment too long and realised that you do in fact fucking answer to yourself. That maybe you even…care. And you couldn’t carry that weight.” 

Tommy flinches at the words, as if they physically hurt. And Alfie wants to draw all the pain out, wants to open his head up and piece together what’s left of his brain, take away all the bad parts and somehow help him and it’s utterly fucking terrifying.

“But I suppose you’re as dead as me now. And the thing when you’re dead is that all your past sins are absolved. So perhaps you could put down that heavy rock you’re dragging around.” 

Tommy shakes his head.

“No?”

“Nothing can do that.”

“Is that right? Eh, Tommy? You think you’ve done things so terrible that not even death would be payment enough?”

Tommy stays quiet.

“Because as far as I can see, you’ve certainly suffered enough for it already,” he mutters. “Sure, that may not be how it fucking works what with… doing penance and asking forgiveness from the people you’ve hurt and fucking what not, but that’s how works for people like you and me innit? Think I walk around here, wallowing in guilt every day?” Across from the bed, the embers glimmer in the fireplace. Alfie gazes at them. “Nah, see I’ve made my peace with the fact that I’ve done plenty of ungodly things in my day. However, by my death and resurrection I have- well, I reckon there’s no point in dwelling on them. What good does that do?”

Tommy has begun running his fingers along his scar, and he’s been too lost in his own mind to notice.

“I just wanted it to stop,” he whispers. 

Alfie hums.

“And did it stop?” 

Tommy curls himself up tighter, tensing. His fingers curl, and this time Alfie catches onto the signs before it’s too late and moves Tommy’s hand from his scar and instead cradles his head with his own hand. He presses his palm against the scar and holds it there. Just lets it rest on Tommy’s head, heavy and sure. Tommy settles, paralyzed, the way rabbits become when you turn them on their back. And here, in the dark, it’s easier to see clearly somehow. Suddenly so fucking simple. Tommy just wants to be close.

The scar feels jagged underneath Alfie’s palm. Must’ve been fucking painful. Then again, supposedly ripping a bullet halfway through your skull must be a painful experience regardless of the scarring afterwards.

He imagines that the heat from his palm would seep in between those jagged edges and somehow mend all the broken bits in Tommy’s head. Or maybe he could just crack it open and pick them out? Make Tommy go back to that arrogant little bastard that waltzed into Alfie’s bakery like he owned the place and looked at him with those big blue eyes across the desk, mind moving quicker than a train engine on fire, and fucking… batting those long eyelashes at him.

Those eyelashes rest against his pale cheeks now, just as long and dark. Even if that engine seems to have completely burnt out. 

“Silly boy, why did you have to go and do this to yourself, eh?” he whispers even though Tommy isn’t a boy anymore. “Wasn’t it enough that you let that fuckin’ priest bash your head into little pieces? Hm? Head like yours, you should be careful with.”

Tommy just shifts a bit closer, until Alfie can feel his breath against his collarbone. He should move away, right? Get out of this bed, leave the light on and the door ajar and go to his own room. That’d be the right and proper thing to do.

But Tommy just wants to be close.

And it’s been so fucking long since anyone wanted to be close to him. Since someone needed him like this. It’s not really something he’s thought about right until this moment.

And so, he stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and as always it makes my day when you share your feelings <33


	12. Crow song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Esther worries about Tommy’s continuous struggle to eat. Alfie refuses to realize just how bad things are. Something’s got to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a WHILE. I've had a just terrible writer's block of the 'everything you write suck' variety, but while in the pit I have still worked very slowly at this chapter and now it's finished. I use blunt force and crying to get things done. A huge thanks to Mintjam and tinypinetrees for supporting, cheerleading and generally being the best. Also the rest of the Tommy/Alfie discord, really, for the writer's therapy.

Every night he tells himself that it’s the last, this arrangement -if one could call it that considering the improvised nature of it all- of him falling asleep next to Tommy in the guestroom. But the thing is, it fucking helps, doesn’t it? Keeps Tommy from wandering the hallways like a restless spirit. And it feels absolutely insane to quit doing it then. He gave it a try yesterday; leaving his place propped up against the headboard of the bed after Tommy had fallen asleep, curled up far too close with both hands tucked under his chin and his forehead pressed against Alfie’s leg. But the second his weight left the mattress Tommy began stirring, making quiet noises and pawing over the mattress, as if he already sensed he was about to be left alone. And yeah, Alfie just couldn’t fucking bring himself to leave him there, could he? Because all that would result in is Tommy wandering off to that armchair again, followed by another day of empty stares and conversations with invisible spectres and crows.

It’s not an entirely comfortable experience, sleeping there in his clothes on top of the covers and waking up with a stiff neck and somehow more tired than when he went to sleep. But the alternative, to get somewhat undressed, and… sleep under the fucking covers is worse, because then it’d seem like this was a planned and permanent thing. Which it isn’t. Because each night he tells himself that tomorrow he’ll read the fucking book, wait for Tommy to fall asleep and then go back to his own bed. Not to mention actually being under the covers would make it undeniable that they’re sharing a bed now, a concept Alfie refuses to give any further thought.

And still, despite all of this, he finds himself staying each night.

Yesterday was no different, he realises as he wakes up with the metal pieces of his suspenders digging into his back and the collar of his shirt bunching uncomfortably around his waist. 

Tommy is plastered against him, curled up as close as he possibly can, nose buried in his chest and fist curled loosely into his shirt, where he previously clutched it in a white knuckled grip. Like this, in the morning light, the events of the night feel far away. The tears have dried on Tommy’s lashes, and he’s so still and quiet. Hard to imagine that Alfie had to spend the better part of the night with his arms around him in a vice like grip, just to keep him from falling apart completely in the dark. 

Right then, Alfie is entirely too warm and comfortable to shift away. Besides, it might wake Tommy up and then they’ll have an incredibly awkward moment of having to be awake in the same bed without the protective shield of night’s darkness. Which is something Alfie’s tried to avoid so far.

And it’s… it’s nice, alright? No use in denying that it’s a pleasant sight; Tommy with morning light falling all over the freckles and pale skin and catching in the dark locks of hair. Esther cut it yesterday. Helped him shave too. (_To make him feel a bit more like himself, Sir. I think it might do him some good. And I’m not about to leave him alone with a razorblade_). The previously shaved sides aren’t as severe as Tommy normally keeps them, just trimmed neatly, long enough to give a little bit of cover over the scar, and the longer locks on top of his head are still long enough to curl at the ends. Not that Alfie pays any particular attention to that, or the way they fall over his forehead now, curling softly around his temples. It should make him look more like himself, but the shave somehow accentuated the deep hollows of his cheeks. But he does look better. A bit less ragged. The light has more room to play now, too, spilling down over the sharp edges of his cheekbones and jaw. And as someone who has always appreciated beautiful things in general and beautiful men in particular, and who has been very starved of the latter as of the last few years, there’s no shame in admitting that Alfie finds the sight pleasant, now, is there? It‘s just like looking at a painting; something pretty to admire from afar -not that it’s really from afar right now, because it’s different when the subject of said painting has decided to step out of the frame and curl up in bed with him, but that’s honestly beside the point.

Right then, Alfie feels completely at peace and yet on edge on the same time. Like he could stay this way forever, just listening to Tommy’s breaths, feeling the warmth of another body close to his, while at the same time painfully aware that it’s all so fucking fragile…

Tommy lets out a quiet little breath and nuzzles his face into his chest and his heart seems to skip a beat. Which finally feels like a que for him to get of the bed.

…

The day passes at a pleasantly slow and uneventful crawl without any too troublesome surprises. Tommy has a decent day, seems aware of his surroundings and the few words he speaks are reserved for Alfie and Esther rather than any invisible voices.

That afternoon finds Alfie in the living room in front of a crackling fire with today’s crossword in his lap, as Tommy dozes under his blanket in his armchair. Alfie considers treating himself to a nap as well. But that plan is interrupted when Esther comes in, giving Tommy’s sleeping form a concerned look laced with tenderness, before beckoning him out in the hallway. With a barely repressed sigh, he gets out of his chair and wonders who is really in charge around here…

Esther ushers him all the way to the very end of the hallway before she speaks in hushed tones: “Sir, I know you won’t like this idea-“ she pauses, and that accompanied by the sharp wrinkles on her brow tells him that no, he’ll absolutely not appreciate to whatever she’s about to say. She purses her lips and continues, “But I think we might have to call a doctor.”

Alfie huffs at the suggestion, “Oh, that sounds like a brilliant idea. Everything’s just getting too peaceful around here, innit? Yeah, let’s bring a third party into this, he’s gonna absolutely love that.”

“He’s still not eating,” Esther says, tone clipped. “And I know that’s just one of the issues, but the truth of the matter is, if he keeps eating so little-”

“Sure he’s eating. Might not be a very well-rounded diet, granted, soup and honey, but I’m pretty sure he’s been running on nothing but whiskey and cigarettes for years so it’s probably more than he’s used to.”

“It’s far, _far _too little,” Esther says, lowering her voice even further. “Haven’t you noticed that he’s _lost _weight since he showed up here? All those walks might be doing him some good but he’s absolutely wasting away.”

Alfie casts a look over his shoulder, as if Tommy would’ve suddenly appeared there to listen in on the conversation. Wouldn’t be too surprising, all things considered, he’s got a habit of quietly appearing if he’s been left alone for too long. But the hallway is empty.

“Can’t you just… try to adjust the soups a bit? Put some lard in there?” Esther opens her mouth to protest and he puts a hand up in a placating gesture. “I’m just… He’s finally doing a bit better, alright? Not by a lot, sure, but it’s- well, it feels like something might be going in the right direction. Feels like bringing a doctor here might throw a wrench into things.”

Not to mention Alfie isn’t too eager to let anyone outside of these walls know that he’s currently harbouring a not entirely sane Tommy Shelby in his house, no matter how trustworthy his own doctor is. Seems like an unnecessary risk.

Esther sighs when he tells her, but then gives him a dejected “Fine.”

And that’s the end of it for now.   
  


However, as it turns out, this is one of those things that won’t go away simply because Alfie really fucking wants it too. And so, two days later on an otherwise rather peaceful afternoon, he’s just on his way out of Tommy’s bedroom when he hears a loud thud coming from the bathroom. Where he just left Tommy on his own devices to get out of the tub. Alfie still can’t bring himself to leave him alone while he’s in the tub, preferring to sit in there on a stool and fill the silence with musings on things big and small. Though when it’s time to actually get out of it, that’s a something he usually leaves the room for. Now, the loud thud has him spinning on his heal and hurrying back.

“Tommy?” he bangs his palm against the door until the whole thing is shaking in its frame. Then he throws it open. 

Tommy lies sprawled face down on the floor, unmoving and so pale that his skin seems to blend into the tiles. For reasons Alfie won’t look into further -but he’d put good money on his being a complete and utter bastard being one of them- is that Tommy’s got a rather spectacular arse. Really, who can blame him for fucking noticing? It’s the first time he’s seen it after all. However it’s only a quick passing thought because the next one steamrolls it, filling his entire head with: Fuck, fuck, it’s so bad. It all becomes so obvious right then, every bony angle poking at Tommy’s skin, every protruding rib, the bruises that run along his spine and the shoulder blades sticking out like broken bird wings...

Alfie grabs a towel and throws it haphazardly over those bony hips for modesty’s sake. Thankfully, Tommy groans and shifts ever so slightly, already coming to.

“Fucks sake, can’t even get out of a tub on your own, can you? ‘s that too much to ask for?” he hisses as he crouches down, swallowing to keep his heart from traveling up his throat. He just barely resists the urge to rip Tommy from the floor and shake him, experience kicking in to remind him that if he’s banged his head, that’s an incredibly bad idea. Tommy himself seems to have other ideas because he rolls onto his side, trying to lift himself off the floor on trembling arms.

“No, no better to just stay there,” he says and grabs him, heavy hands landing on his scrawny shoulders. “Don’t know what state your head’s in after a fall like that. Might just keel over again.”

Clearly not understanding, Tommy once again tries to sit up, batting weakly at Alfie’s hands without actually hitting them. A sliver of blue becomes visible beneath the long lashes, but he can’t seem to fixate his eyes on anything. He’s already begun trembling, wet skin prickling with goose bumps all over. Alfie looks around for another towel and finds two. With some effort he spreads one of them over the cold tiles and carefully rolls Tommy onto his back, supporting his head on the other. 

“Right, feet up,” he says and grabs the stool usually reserved for his vigilance of Tommy’s baths, lifting his feet up onto it. Which makes the towel scoot down dangerously over his hips, but needs fucking must, right?

Tommy the stupid bastards tries to sit up again and Alfie sinks back down onto the unforgiving tiles, hands on his shoulders with a grip just tight enough to ground him as he tries to catch his gaze.

“Tommy, no, you need to stay down there, alright?” he says very slowly. “ Just until we can be sure you won’t fucking fall and bang your head again.”

“ ‘m cold,” Tommy whispers and seems to try to somehow curl inwards on himself. There’s already a bruise forming on his forehead, but at least he hasn’t completely cracked his skull open. He flinches when Alfie reaches out to examine it-

And that’s the scene Esther walks in on. Which may be why she gives Alfie an absolutely withering look. She only demands the shortest of explanations before jumping into action, ordering Alfie to go fetch Tommy some warm clothes and get his bed in order while she starts assessing the damage.

For once glad to not be the one doing the thinking, Alfie does as he’s told.

He can hear her questioning Tommy while he searches the bed for the flannel pyjamas, the: ‘can you see properly?’ and ‘are you feeling nauseous’ being met with quiet but clear answers of ‘yes’ and ‘no’.

When he returns to the bathroom with the pyjamas and a thick jumper, Esther seems to have ruled out a severe concussion at least -small mercies. He’s ushered out again while she helps Tommy get into the clothes and then just as quickly called back in when it turns out that Tommy can’t walk anywhere unaided. So together, the two of them lead him back to the bed.

The ‘stay put’ Esther says over her shoulder as she marches off to fetch something to eat seems to apply to them both, so Alfie slumps down onto the mattress next to Tommy, feeling like he can finally take a proper fucking breath.

“Tell me this, Tommy, you still working on some kind of plan on how to off yourself, eh?”

Tommy picks at his blanket and says nothing.

“Yeah, because if you do, the sea is right fucking there, innit?” he snarls, stabbing a finger in direction of the window. “And Esther’s got a kitchen full of sharp knives-“ That’s not true, she keeps them in a locked drawer now. “Much fucking quicker than starving yourself to death. Because you realise that’s what you’re doing, right? And that’s why you fucking faint after such a strenuous activity as getting out of a bath.” He grits his teeth, adding after a moment’s consideration: “Esther thinks we should call a doctor.”

“No.” The answer comes so quick and sharp that it manages to startle him. Tommy has shot upright in the bed, eyes wide as he stares at him. “No,” he says again, and grabs onto Alfie’s sleeve. 

“I know a good one,” Alfie says, ignoring him. “Doctor Adelman. Trustworthy man, I’d say. Soft spoken and calm and all of that. Think you’d like him, seeing as you’ve taken to Esther…” 

“No, no-“ Tommy keeps shaking his head and is now grasping his sleeve with both hands, so hard his knuckles turn white. Naturally, Alfie has to push it.

“Yeah, see, I think it might be good for you. A professional opinion on all of this-“

Tommy will bolt, he’s absolutely sure of it, and readies himself to grab him if need be. But instead he suddenly has his forehead pressed against his arm as he falls forward into a shivering heap. Still clinging, still repeating the mantra of ‘no, no, no-“

Alfie only watches for a moment, because it seems like no matter how many times they’re through this kind of thing, he’s never completely prepared for it. Then he thinks, somewhat dazed, that it’s strange seeing the nape of Tommy’s neck from this angle with the freshly cut hair. And as Tommy stays there huddled against him, showing no signs of moving, he finds himself raking his fingers gently over the curve of the back of his head. A shiver runs through Tommy as he nestles impossibly closer, finally going quiet. So he does it again.

For some reason, right then, it feels as natural as during all those dark nights.

“Have you always had this aversion to doctors, hm, Tommy? Or is this something more recent?” He whispers and continues petting him. “See, she’s worried, alright. Esther. About a lot of things, granted, but your distinct lack of appetite and inability to stomach much of anything at all is at the top of the list. And she’d be much calmer if a professional got involved.” 

“I’ll eat,” Tommy whispers. “I will, I promise-“ his breathing hitches as if he’s choking and he begins rocking back and forth ever so slightly. Alfie lets his hand become a bit heavier, and he goes still again, pushing his head harder against his arm. Tommy curls inwards on himself like a frightened animal trying to hide in its burrow, his forehead slipping down to rest on Alfie’s thigh. It makes his breathing stutter for just a moment. But he continues stroking Tommy’s hair, fingers raking easily through the silky locks. Just to see… just to test.

Tommy gradually relaxes under his ministrations, and eventually ends up curled up on his side, head still resting on Alfie’s lap. Alfie thinks of leaning against the headboard, but doesn’t dare to move, afraid that will make all of this too real. As if he’s admitting that this is now something he fucking _does; _sits with Tommy curled against his side like a kitten. So he just stays completely still. And silent. 

Until the moment Esther’s quiet steps approach in the hallway and his first instinct is to shove Tommy away, making him flinch and look up at him with hurt in his eyes and flushing cheeks. Thankfully Alfie doesn’t get time to stew in the unexpected feeling of guilt bubbling up in the pit of his stomach because Esther enters, carrying a tray.

“There you go, love. Should help a little, this,” she says softly and sets the tray down onto the nightstand. There’s a bowl of soup, and a smaller one with apple slices. Tommy looks at the tray with weary eyes, but quietly accepts the soup when she hands it over.

Esther still has that worried wrinkle on her brow when she leaves the room. 

Alfie finds himself staying there on the bed as Tommy slowly eats the soup. Long after that bowl is empty, the slices of apple still sit untouched on the tray. Tommy must notice him looking because he picks one up and- and then just holds it. Takes a shaky breath. Stares at it. Bites his lip.

Alfie’s learned a thing or two about patience, since Tommy appeared on his doorstep. And sure enough they’re lessons he’d rather _not _have learned because honestly, things have been going just fine so far without them. But, well, given this new situation he’s found himself, it’s probably a good thing. So he’s learned that it’s all about breathing very slowly in and out and thinking of something very inane for a bit. Or possibly count as high as possible. Anything to pass the time until Tommy decides to answer, look at him, emerge from that shadowy place he goes to more often than not. Or just take a bite of an apple. Whatever it may be.

However there are limitations even to this technique, so when after several fucking minutes, Tommy is still fucking staring at the apple piece, white in the face now, he gives up.

“Fuck, just put it in your _fucking _mouth, Tommy,” he snaps. But Tommy just keeps staring down at the apple and the hollows under his cheekbones and the way his collarbones stick out suddenly become too much to bear. Fine. Fucking _fine_. Alife gets out of bed, snatching the bowl of apples as he goes.

“No,” Tommy whines and scrambles after him over the mattress and out of bed on unsteady legs, gripping the back of his shirt. “No, no please don’t call, don’t call-“ the sudden tug at his shirt ignites a spark of frustration, red hot and dangerous and he shoves Tommy. Tommy stumbles on unsteady legs, and but Alfie is out the door before he can see if he falls or not. Not that he gives a single fuck-

In the hallway on his way to the kitchen he almost walks straight into Esther, who seems to have developed some kind of sixth sense when it comes to Tommy being in distress. He ignores her questions and carries on to the kitchen where he grabs the closest knife and proceeds to chop the apple up into even tinier pieces. Once they could probably be passed off as something you’d feed a baby, he scrapes them into a bowl. After a moment’s thought he rifles through the pantry to find the jar of honey, spooning in some of it into the bowl and stirring. Muttering curses to himself for want of something better to do with the frustration, he makes his way back to the bedroom.

Halfway down the hallway he hears the sound of muffled, wordless screaming and Esther’s hushing and breaks into a run.

The first thing he notices when he enters the bedroom is the open window and the way it swings and rattles in the wind that fills the room. The second is Esther, on the floor with a violently struggling Tommy in her arms. Her hair has fallen out of its neat updo and her cheeks are red from the effort, while Tommy is squirming desperately and making panicked noises in the back of his throat, eyes blown wide. She gives Alfie an absolutely furious look as he enters.

“What did you do?” she hisses, only sparing him a quick glare before turning her attention back to Tommy. “ ‘s alright, love, shh, nothing bad will happen to you, you’re safe here-“

Esther might be as tough as they come, but reasonably it should be impossible for her to keep Tommy this still, so how she does it, Alfie has no idea. He hurries over to them and ignores the look he receives and the way Esther shifts her grip around Tommy, as if she’s trying to shield him.

“Here, let me,” he says and holds out his arms as he kneels a few feet away, overcome by a sudden calm. Esther just snorts, but her grip falters for just the briefest of moments and Tommy breaks free with a distraught wail. He scrambles away, only to crash straight into Alfie’s chest. Alfie wraps both arms around him, locking them tightly and just holds him. Which is much easier than it should be, because Tommy is as weak as a kitten.

“I‘m not calling a fucking doctor, alright?” he says firmly. “Not calling anybody for that matter, you hear? And if you want to fucking leave, you can use the bloody door.”

Tommy digs his heels into the floor and tries to shove himself away, eyes still wide and darting around the room. Alfie wraps an arm around his neck and holds his head against his chest, right over his heart.

He’s very aware of Esther’s eyes on him, but tries to ignore the accusation there and focus on Tommy. Tommy gasps frantically but has finally stopped moving. Perhaps he’s just exhausted himself. Alfie begins stroking his hair and after a little bit, shaking fingers bury themselves in the fabric of his waistcoat.

“We’re not calling anyone,” he repeats. “Not unless you want us to, alright?”

He’s vaguely aware of the sound of the wind coming to an abrupt stop, which means someone must’ve shut the window. The silence that fills the room is almost deafening in its wake.

“There you go, all’s well,” he mutters. “You’re just fine, ain’t ya? Yeah, just fine.”

Tommy has gone completely still in his arms save for the shivers; a small, warm lump pressed entirely against his chest, every bony angle digging into Alfie. It should be more uncomfortable than it actually is. And he’s stopped struggling. Is clinging to him instead, huddling close, close…

And it’s a terrifying mixture of dread and exhilaration, realising that even if this latest episode was his bloody fault, he’s actually done something to help. That Tommy wants to be close to him. Too much fucking responsibility, that…

He combes his fingers through Tommy’s hair, suddenly can’t get enough of the feeling of soft locks against his skin, and the way each stroke seems to make him melt further into his arms. His breaths are steady against his chest now, eyelashes fanned low over his eyes and gaze soft.

“Would you like me to bring you this, Sir?”

Somehow he’s forgotten Esther is in the room with them, so her voice makes his head jerk upright and he feels a sudden rush of blood to his cheeks. She’s holding the bowl of apple pieces and there’s a strangely tender look on her face that he doesn’t care to examine further. He clears his throat.

“Hrm, ‘s alright, just put it over there-“ he grunts and gestures vaguely to the nightstand. Tommy snuffles a little in protests when he stops stroking his hair. He tries to fasten his gaze on something besides Esther. “But bring us that, will you?” he asks and nods towards the blanket on the bed. “Don’t think he’ll be moving anytime soon.” Esther brings it over, wrapping it around Tommy’s shoulders.

Alfie fusses with the blanket, adjusts it the way Tommy likes, all the way up to his nose, and tries very hard to ignore Esther’s presence.

“I’ll go do some clearing up in the kitchen,” she says softly and he hopes she can sense the gratitude because he sure as hell won’t look up, keeping his eyes firmly on an undetermined spot on his knee instead.

When the door closes behind her, he can finally safely turn his attention to Tommy again.

His throat is fucking dry for some reason so he has to cough in an attempt to clear it.

“So, up you go,” he says and lamely tries to encourage Tommy to stand, but Tommy seems to have no intention what so ever to move, head still on his chest. “No? You comfortable there, are you?”

Tommy blinks slowly, eyelids heavy. No wonder, really, these things seem to drain him. But just because one of them has lost their rational thinking doesn’t mean both of them have to toss all common sense out the window… Alfie tries to at least be gentle about it when he pushes Tommy away, and tries just as hard to ignore the way he tries to cling to him. Can’t be fucking helped.

“Go on, let’s get you to bed, how about it?” he says and hooks a hand under his arm, somehow managing to tug him upright. Tommy is about as steady as a new born foal and clings to his arm the short walk over to the bed.

Once he’s finally safe and sound under the covers, Alfie settles next to him again and picks up the book. _When all else fails…_Without any comments, he sets the bowl of apples down in Tommy’s lap and sees what little colour he’s regained drain from his face as he stares down at the contents as if it was filled with dirt or bugs.

“I‘m not about to call a doctor, alright,” Alfie says, pretending to be searching for the right page. “I said so, didn’t I? Not unless you ask for one. Nothing’s gonna happen if you don’t eat it, except Esther ending up with a few more grey hairs, yeah? But perhaps you could try it, at your own pace? Just a piece or two?”

Tommy doesn’t respond. So Alfie just adjusts the glasses on his nose and begins reading: ”To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name-”

Tommy scoots a bit closer, gravitating towards him. He’s not entirely sure when it began happening, only knows that it’s become a common occurrence. It’ slow and hesitant, as if expects to be pushed away. Alfie finds himself staying very still, and very focused on the pages of the book. Finally Tommy is sat close enough for their arms to brush, and seems somewhat at peace with that. 

“As I passed the well-remembered door,” Alfie reads on. “Which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet-“ Out of the corner of his eye he sees Tommy skewer a single one of the tiny apple pieces on his fork and looking down at it. “I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers-“ he turns the page and lo and fucking behold, Tommy puts the fork in his mouth. He chews the piece for longer than what could possibly be necessary, shuddering when he swallows. Another piece follows, this time not quite as painful. At this pace, he’ll manage to eat all of half an apple in about twelve hours.

It’s not good enough, but at least it’s something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god I just realized I'm now two chapters behind on answering comments, but I'll get to them! Please know that sometimes it's the one thing keeping me going, so feel free to share your emotions and thoughts 
> 
> (hopefully it won't be another... month until I upload again)


	13. Talk to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy continuous to struggle with food and just about everything else. But there are good moments in between.
> 
> Alfie comes to a realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay well yes it's been two months. I won't bore you with the details, but the gist of it is that work has been crazy due to me being a teacher in Sweden where the schools are still open. But now there's a chapter! And I've got a rough draft for the two following ones. 
> 
> There's a POV switch in this, which I usually don't do in the middle of a chapter, but I couldn't figure out a better way to do it so now it's... there
> 
> Enough talking, on to the chapter!

Tommy rearranges the apple pieces in front of him with the tip of his fork. Moves them all into a pile on one side of the bowl. Moves a few of them to the other. Alfie doesn’t say anything but he can feel the annoyance rolling off him in waves, because they’ve been at this table far longer than he deems acceptable and his patience is running out. He skewers a single tiny piece and puts it in his mouth. Chews it thoroughly and tries to not cringe when he swallows it.

It’s difficult again today. Every time he thinks it’s getting better it seems to get worse again-

“Why is it so difficult, Tommy? Why do you have to be so fucking difficult?” Lizzie’s patience has also run out.

It’ll be easier afterwards, once he’s done eating. Alfie will read to him and do the crossword and they’ll go outside and then Alfie will read to him. All those good things. He tries repeating that to himself and ignore the way his pulse fluttering so close to the surface. As if the skin on his wrists has become so thin that he can feel the vibrations through it, always rabbit paced and shallow.

Porcelain clatters as Esther finishes the last of the washing up. She hasn’t said anything in a while but he knows she’s worried.

Alfie gets annoyed, Esther gets worried. That’s how it always plays out.

His stomach lurches so he puts the fork down and watches the sunlight glint in the silver.

Over the sound of his own heartbeat, he just barely hears Esther tell them she has to run off to the shop, and Alfie’s grunted answer. (Yeah, yeah alright, ‘s fine. See if the oranges are any good. Maybe we could expand Tommy’s rather short list of acceptable foods, hm?) It’s followed by a long sigh and he tenses up, can’t help it. Alfie will be angry, he’ll get sick of him and-

The door closes as Esther leaves. Paper rustles.

“If you want to go for that walk you’ll have to eat,” Alfie says firmly. “That’s the deal, yeah? Can’t be spending all that time trotting along blustery fields, expelling what little energy you have and then pecking at whatever’s put before you like very small and very fucking picky bird. Hear that? You have to eat. It’s non-negotiable.”

Have to, you have to-

“Tommy, you have to eat.” Lizzie looks so sad, always looks sad, but now her mouth twitches into a tight lipped, annoyed frown. “We wouldn’t have to do it the other way then, I know you hate it.” 

Make you, they’re going to-

“How did they manage to get you to eat back home, hmm?” Alfie grumbles and the paper rustles as he turns the page. “Sure you were little more skin and fucking bones when you showed up here but at least you were…. somewhat alive, so they must’ve managed it somehow.”

He wrings his hands under the table, wants to scratch, claw at the scar and-

The tube scratches and tears his throat when it’s forced down and he can’t breathe. He fights but there are too many hands there.

“Hold him, for God’s sake-”

“You’re hurting him!” 

“I assure you Mrs. Shelby, this is a very safe procedure, it’s simply hard due to his fragile mental state. He doesn’t understand that we’re trying to help.”

“I can fucking see that. He’s terrified!”

“If you want your husband to stay alive, this is unfortunately a necessity.”

Lizzie’s face is blurred at the edges, far away, then close, it’s hard to see through the tears and he wants to reach for her. She’ll tell them to stop- She can see that they’re hurting him, that he wants them to go away.

But she doesn’t tell them, instead she looks at him, knuckles white as she grips her arms. 

“Tommy, they’re only trying to help, please try to calm down-”

“Tommy-” There’s a large, familiar hand on his shoulder, one that is warm, warm and strong and solid. A chair scrapes over the floor as Alfie moves closer. “It’s alright, stay with me.”

“God, I can’t do this-“ Lizzie’s voice keeps ringing in his head and the bullet itches and burns inside his skull- Alfie grabs his hand and pulls it away from his head. The old urge to run claws at him -_run, hide where they can’t find you_\- fighting with the newer, stranger one, to huddle close to Alfie, bury his face in the safety of his washed out shirt and wait for everything else to go away. Until it’s just Alfie’s voice and Alfie’s heartbeat in his ears. He doesn’t have to make the choice. Alfie puts a heavy hand on the back of his neck and he falls forward until his forehead meets with soft fabric and a broad chest. Alfie hushes him. Rakes his fingers gently against the nape of his neck. He’s shaking. Breathing so fast that the air is getting caught in his throat.

“Shh, Tommy, ‘s alright. I’ve got you, yeah?” he mutters. “It's just you and me here, so right now we’re the only people that matter. Just keep breathing, and listen to me, not anyone else, alright? Can you do that for me?”

He nods into Alfie’s chest, whatever he says, whatever he says, he’ll listen he’ll do as he’s told- Shouldn’t make decisions because there’s something wrong something wrong with his head he knows, knows he can’t trust himself-

“You need to listen to the doctors, Tommy, they’re only trying to help.”

Listen to the doctors, not to the voices even if Grace tells him to and he shouldn’t listen to her either and it’s so hard to know which of all the voices he should trust-

Alfie still hasn’t shoved him away, hasn’t stopped combing his fingers through his hair, as if the clinging doesn’t bother him that much. Tommy can’t figure out why sometimes he’s not allowed to be close at all and sometimes Alfie will hold onto him- He can’t help moving closer then, it’s as if his body does these things on its own accord, he’s drawn into that warm, strong embrace.

And he’s safe.

Safe, safe safe Alfie keeps him safe and he should listen to Alfie and as long as Alfie lets him be here and listen to his heartbeat and feel how warm he is he’ll be okay.

Finally, the panic fades enough for the fog engulfing him to clear, the voices going from a screaming chorus to more a quiet hum in the back of his mind. It leaves him exhausted, hanging limply in Alfie’s arms.

“You can’t make me,” he whispers.

Alfie hums, but it sounds like a question. “Can’t make you do what, Tommy?”

“Eat.”

“Yes, he can, he just hasn’t figured out how yet. Just you wait…” He pushes his face deeper into the fabric of Alfie’s shirt, hoping the sound of his heartbeat will drown out Grace’s voice. Alfie sighs. The fingers move up into his hair, softly tangling through it. Rhythmically, soothingly. It makes Tommy want to melt, crawl closer until there’s nothing but Alfie’s safe heat surrounding him.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Alfie mutters and the arm around him shifts the tiniest bit, pulling him impossibly closer. “Fuck, I can’t… make you do anything. That’s what makes all of this so hard, innit? Granted no one’s ever been able to make you do shit, so nothing new there.”

He swallows down the bile suddenly rising in the back of his throat, replying shakily, “I’m trying.” 

“Yeah, yeah I know you are,” Alfie says and his voice is soft. As if it’s at night and they’re in bed together. He adds quietly as an afterthought, “Why is it so difficult, hm, Tommy? This whole… eating thing.”

“I don’t know.”

“Downright talkative today, aren’t we?” Alfie’s throaty chuckle rumbles against his ear. It’s a nice sound. “Well, how about you try to eat… let’s say at least half of that, while I finish reading the paper, hm? I’ll read it out loud for you, doesn’t that sound good?”

“Can we go for a walk?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure we can. You don’t- well, that was a stupid thing to make threats about. We’ll continue with the walks. Even when you can’t eat. Won’t do you any good to stay inside, I reckon. But first we try eating, alright?” Still with one arm around him, he reaches for the bowl and sets it down in front of him. Tommy doesn’t lift his head from his chest. “And as long as you don’t go dropping apple pieces all over these trousers you can stay here.”

“They’re wrinkly.”

Alfie raises both eyebrows so far up they could disappear under his hair. Tommy points at one of the creases to clarify.

“Oh, so you mean to tell me it doesn’t matter if you also get them dirty on top of that? I am incredibly offended at whatever implications you have, because let me tell you I do have some fucking standards when it comes to my attire. The nerve of you-“ continuing to mutter under his breath, Alfie starts flipping through the paper to find the right page. Tommy picks up the fork again, relaxing further into the half embrace he’s in.

And his head stays rather quiet for the rest of the meal.

…

Today they go a bit further on their walk. The air is so cold it stings going down his lungs and Tommy takes huge drags of it in between the cigarette smoke.

“Should’ve given you a pair of mittens,” Alfie mutters, eying his trembling hands. They’re cold, but he doesn’t mind. Makes them feel real.

“Well, I promise you they’re fucking real whether they’re shaking or not, I can give you visual confirmation of that, mate,” Alfie says and for a moment he wonders if he can read his mind but perhaps he’s just spoken out loud. It happens sometimes.

It’s easier to be outside. Surrounded by rustling grass and creaking branches and with the wind brushing across his face. Out here he can breathe.

“Probably should’ve made you wear another scarf too,” Alfie goes on in that same grumbling tone and it makes something strangely warm fill his chest if only for a moment because it makes him feel like he cares-

“Why would he care? Who are you trying to fool, Tommy?” The retort is as quick and biting as always,

He moves a little closer to Alfie and shakes the voice out of his head. Alfie doesn’t comment on it.

Alfie takes him to a wooden bench, one he’s never seen before. Not that there’s been another bench either, as Alfie points out when he sits him down to rest despite Tommy’s quiet protests. He doesn’t need to rest right now. But if Alfie thinks he does then it’s probably good to listen. He should listen to Alfie. And the view is nice; a grassy plane covered in frost and far away, the ground stoops into a cliffside. Beyond the drop he can see the ocean, calm and blue. It’s not as threatening when it’s so far away. Alfie is seated next to him, enthusiastically describing different types of clouds and what they mean for the weather. Which is apparently a subject he’s got plenty of musings on. Tommy can just sit there and listen, finally feeling the unease from this morning’s breakfast settle. Until Alfie, still with his eyes fastened on the clouds, says, “Alright, so this food issue… I’ve been thinking, trying to figure out how the hell they managed it back home. And, though it’s taken me longer than it should have to come to the conclusion, I can only assume there was some force involved.” 

His heart drops into the pit of his stomach and his ribcage seems to shrink around his lungs, pressing all the air from them. The shaking starts almost immediately, along with the frantic breaths, the panic so sudden and strong that it makes his head spin.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” Alfie adds, still without looking at him, “About… anything really but about this in particular. But I will keep asking things, you know. On occasion. Can’t be good to bottle all of that up.”

He hunches his shoulders and makes himself small, so small that no one can see him, no one can see him or be angry or disappointed or-

And he says nothing, but it’s too late because Alfie understands anyway.

“Fuck,” he sighs. “Fuck, yeah, alright. I should’ve figured.” He rubs a hand over his face and sets his elbows heavily on his knees. “No wonder it’s so difficult now. Probably should’ve guessed it earlier but I suppose I didn’t think- well, it seems a bit extreme is all. Then again-“ 

Tommy gets off the bench and sets off over the frozen grass towards nowhere in particular. Just away from here. Far away. But he doesn’t get far before a hand closes around his arm. 

“Right, we’re done with the questions for now. But you’re not running off, especially in that direction because there are some very steep and high cliffs there. And I still have today’s crossword to finish which is a task I truly require your expert albeit quiet expertise on.” 

He stares down at the grass. The warmth from Alfie’s body seeps into him as he steps closer. Grounds him there on the spot.

“I won’t pry,” Alfie adds, voice soft now. “And you don’t have to worry about any of that here. Alright? Just… sit down, yeah? And look at the clouds and trees and all that nature you seem to appreciate so much.” 

He sits down again. Draws his arms closer to his chest in an attempt to keep them from trembling.

True to his word, Alfie goes back to talking about the clouds. The next time he pauses many minutes later it’s only to shoot Tommy a look and say, “Don’t mind the cold my arse, your lips are turning blue.”

He shrugs, which is only met by another loud huff. “It’s fine,” he says then. 

Alfie watches him for another moment before taking his scarf off and shoving it in his direction.

“Oh, for fucks sake just take it,” he says when Tommy doesn’t move.

He doesn’t know what to do.

Alfie wraps the scarf around his neck all the way up to his nose.

“There you go. A little better, innit?”

“You’ll be cold.” The words are muffled by the scarf but it’s warm and soft and he can’t bring himself to take it off or push it down. And Alfie looks so pleased.

“Nah, I’m fine. See, I’ve got at least a few extra pounds, curtesy of Esther’s cooking, to keep me warm as opposed to you,” he says and pats his stomach, shifting to lean back I his seat and let his head drop back, closing his eyes. The sun has come out from behind a cloud, spilling warms rays of light over them.

“I for one think the sun is best enjoyed when it’s cold out,” Alfie says. “That way you don’t have to deal with the fucking sweltering heat of it. See, that really is the curse of ‘weather’ isn’t it? Always just too fucking much of it-“ he launches into a whole speech on the subject, still with his eyes closed.

Tommy closes his eyes too, focusing on the warm rays on his face, the sound of Alfie’s voice, the distant rustling of branches and the clear, cold air filling his nose. In and out. It feels warm when he exhales it, catching in the scarf around his face. The scarf smells like Alfie. Alfie smells like... soap. Pipe tobacco. And something else that Tommy can’t put his finger on.

Right then, his head is blissfully still and quiet.

Like the wind swept away all the bad things.

It’s quiet for a long time.

Finally he ralises Alfie’s gone quiet too.

He has to open his eyes to make sure he’s still there, that it’s real.

Alfie’s just watching him, eyebrows furrowed and head tilted ever so slightly. Which isn’t too unusual, Alfie often stares at him with a kind of strange intensity, as if he can look straight through him. Even before. When they’d sit in his office in Camden. In that other life. But now there’s something else there, his eyes look strangely soft and it must be the warm sunlight. It makes Tommy’s heart skip a beat in his chest. Because it’s been so long since someone _looked_ at him that way. Soft. Almost affectionate. He knows he must be mistaken, so he’s left wracking his brain trying to understand, ending up staring back at Alfie as he does.

Alfie’s arm is resting on the back of the bench, right by Tommy’s shoulders.

When did they end up so close to each other?

“There’s this myth,” he says quietly, still looking at him. “The Greek sun god Helios -because those fuckers couldn’t be satisfied with one God, no, they had to have several, but that’s beside the point. Well, Helios, he would ride across the sky with his carriage, dragging the sun behind him. And he was a beautiful fellow, wasn’t he? Like all those Greek Gods. And this… forest nymph caught a glimpse of him one morning. Fell head over heels of course. After that she sat there watching him, every day-” Alfie’s breath is creating white puffs of smoke around them. “She sat so still that one day, eventually, she turned into a flower, would you believe it. That supposedly explains why they turn their petals towards the sun. You know? The flowers.”

Tommy blinks and nudges down the scarf to uncover his mouth.

“Flowers?”

Alfie hums. “Yeah. Flowers. So you might want to be careful about sitting there in the sun for too long.”

“It’s not a true story,” he reasons, unsure whether Alfie is serious or not. Maybe he’s misunderstanding? It used to be much easier to read between the lines and untangle the things people told him. Alfie smiles and his eyes are so warm and he wants to understand but all his thoughts have come to a grinding halt.

“Well, you never know,” he says. “I mean neither of us were there to witness it but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. But it’d suit you, being a flower. Bet you’d even like it too, then you could really run off of only sunlight and a bit of… water.” He trails off at the end, going quiet.

They’re so close Tommy can feel his hot breath against his skin. Fingertips grace lightly over his shoulders.

And then all he can hear is his own heart beating against his ribcage and he wants to- wants-

Alfie blinks and clears his throat, shifting his entire body away to stare out over the sea instead.

“Should be going back, I reckon. A scarf only helps so much, especially for a fragile little thing such as yourself. You’ll catch a cold and I’ll be hearing about it from Esther forever.”

Then he stands up and starts walking back towards the path, pace brisk and steps determined.

Tommy struggles to keep up all the way home.

\---

“So, I had a dream last night…”

They’re in between books. Alfie’s just finished the last chapter and can’t be bothered to wander out to the bookshelf to find the next installment in the series, he’s quite comfortable here with Tommy curled up against his side. And Tommy seems to be on the verge of falling asleep anyway, just needs those few extra moments to be fully lulled into it, so, a pointless dream story it is.

“And in the dream, I had to hide from a pack of wolves.” Tommy hums and nudes him with his nose, a clear sign he wants Alfie to continue stroking his hair. Alfie obliges. “Which might seem cowardly but I can’t be held responsible, right. Well, apparently the only place to hide was in this aboveground bunker. A dome shaped one.”

Tommy yawns seems very sympathetic of the wolf plight. It’s still a kind of wonder seeing how much this calms him down: being close, having Alfie’s fingers combing through his hair. Alfie has to admit it makes him rather proud.

“Only it was packed with other people also hiding from the fucking wolves, but who apparently had planned this better than me. So I decided to climb on top of it instead. Not a good plan, let me tell you, but what are you gonna do, right? But climbing on top of a dome shaped metal structure is a lot fucking harder than it looks…”

Tommy’s breathing has gone steady and deep and he stops talking, just lies there listening to it, feeling his own eyelids becoming heavier and heavier until they’re impossible to keep open. So he lets them fall shut.

…

The duvet rustles a little as Tommy shifts and it quickly pulls him out of his slumber.

“Still awake?” he asks quietly. “Want me to go get another book?”

There’s no answer, so Alfie opens his eyes only to find himself staring straight into Tommy’s. They’re so bright. Seem to shine with their own light even in the darkness of the bedroom. Bright and so fucking blue. Bluest eyes he ever saw... Tommy shifts a bit closer. Their foreheads almost touch. And he bites his tongue, clenches his hands into fists to resist the urge to close the gap between them. He can do that. Can control himself and these… urges.

Until he suddenly can’t anymore.

And he kisses him.

It’s all a blur after that.

Tommy’s lips are soft and pliant against his, willingly parting and letting him take control. Alfie does. He deepens the kiss and wraps an arm around Tommy’s waist, tugging him closer. He rolls him onto his back and Tommy goes along with it, lets him do as he pleases. Even spreads his legs for him, willing and eager, as if he was fucking made for this and only this. Alfie grinds against him, ruts him into the mattress as he presses kisses against every patch of skin he can reach. He’s so hard his head is spinning. This red hot desire that eradicates all other thoughts except the urge to bury himself to the hilt in tight, wet heat-

“Alfie,” Tommy breathes in a hoarse, broken voice. “I need…”

“Yeah? What do you need, love?” he asks, trailing kisses down his jaw. “Tell me.” Tommy just whimpers, and the sound sends bolts of arousal down his spine. Slender legs wrap tightly around Alfie’s hips, heels digging into the backs of his thighs.

“Please-“

“I want to hear you say it.”

Tommy looks up at him, meets his eye steadily. No panicked flickering or disconnected fog, just this clear, blue gaze. Finally present. And it knocks all the air from Alfie’s lungs. There’s a hand on the back of his head and then Tommy is pulling into another kiss, voice trembling against his lips, “You. I need you.”

Alfie opens his eyes and finds himself surrounded by inky blackness, heart pounding in his ears and with the feeling of soft lips still lingering on his mouth. Tommy is there, curled up on his side with his back against him, Alfie’s arm wrapped around his narrow waist and holding him firmly against his chest. And Alfie is fucking rock hard, the very obvious erection pushing into the small of his back.

He virtually throws himself away from Tommy and out of bed, and it’s a fucking miracle that he stays asleep. But he does. He’s stays asleep, because he was asleep thank fuck, hands tucked under his chin and with his favourite blanket clasped loosely in his fingers. Alfie just stands there next to the bed, trying to calm his frantic breaths and force down the mix of panic and lingering arousal. Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck-

Tommy shifts a little and curls up tighter into his protective ball, as if he already feels that he’s alone in bed, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

Unable to think clearly Alfie staggers into his own bedroom, tearing off his sweaty shirt and discarding it on the floor. Needs to cool down, remove any traces of the dream. The trousers go too as he moves on to the bathroom and goes to stand in front of the sink, filling his hands with ice cold water and dunking his face in. It does little to help. His blood still runs red hot, and he’s still hard as fucking marble. Tommy’s ragged breaths echo in his ears and he can almost feel those legs wrapped tightly around his hips.

Fuck, fuck, he can’t be thinking this, can’t be doing this. Tommy is completely dependent on him. He’s… vulnerable and helpless and _trusts_ Alfie with his fucking life for some goddamn reason.

And here he is, dreaming about fucking him in the same bed where he’s held him through countless of nightmares.

With an angry grunt he goes to his own bed, lying down flat on his back with his hands shoved under his head. He’ll sleep it off, right? Just lie here, calm down, and tomorrow this will just be another meaningless dream. But he still has Tommy’s voice ringing in his head, whimpering and moaning and he can just imagine those long eyelashes fluttering closed as he-

His resolve crumbles within seconds and he shoves a hand into his shorts and wraps his fingers around his cock. It’s so hard it jumps in his fist and he rubs a thumb over the swollen head.

“Fuck me, Alfie, please-“ Tommy spreads his legs for him, willing, wanton. Completely his and only his. Looking up at him with those huge, blue eyes, full of adoration.

He’d be gentle, make it good for him. Fuck all that tension and all the bad things out of him, until he’s so exhausted that he sleeps soundly for once. Tommy would quiver and cling to him. And he’d make him come so hard-

_“Alfie-“_

He comes within a few seconds, his entire body shuddering, imagining Tommy under him, around him, tight and wet and _hot_.

The guilt afterwards is almost suffocating. No repetition of ‘it’s just a fucking dream’ helps to soothe it because he can only live in denial for so long and he knows deep down it’s so much fucking more than that.

He doesn’t manage to fall asleep until the first rays of sunlight stream in through the curtains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for patiently waiting for this very delayed chapter -if you've stuck around <3


	14. The trouble with wanting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things change. Tommy doesn't cope well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's celebrate the fact that it's now only been a few weeks instead of two months between updates! Thank you as always to everyone who is reading and an extra special thanks to everyone who's left a comment <3 I hope you'll enjoy this

Sometimes, Tommy has to be dragged out of the nightmares, as if they’re clinging to his mind with sharp claws dug deep into every crevice of it. And only the arms around him and the soft mutters of: ‘ ‘s only a dream, Tommy, fucks sake...’ can pull him out of it and back into the dimly lit bedroom where Alfie is waiting, bleary eyed and voice gravel-thick but there and awake all the same. And keeps him from scrambling out of the bed, tucks him into his side and just holds him there until the mud has cleared out of his lungs and the voices have gone quiet enough for the worst of the panic to fade. 

And then some nights, waking up is like being pushed off a cliff and bolting upright just as he’s about to hit the ground, heart pounding and with terror licking down his spine. Tonight is one of those nights.

He wakes already sitting ramrod straight in the bed, choking on his own frantic breaths and shirt clinging to his back, soaked in cold sweat. Wet cheeks and with the last sobs still lodged in his throat. He reaches blindly across the mattress for Alfie.

But he’s not there. He’s- he’s-

Breaths catching in his throat again, he looks towards Alfie’s chair, not there, he’s not there either.

Maybe he’s just gone to the bathroom? He’ll be back soon, really soon, won’t leave him alone, Tommy just has to wait and he will, he’ll wait and-

But he needs Alfie to be here_ now_. The door is closed and seems very far away, but if he just-

“You shouldn’t be out of bed, Tommy,” Lizzie chastises him, eyes tired. “It’s not safe for you to wander around all on your own.”

As if the floorboards burnt him, he quickly pulls his feet back up onto the bed. It’s not safe, he has to stay here. He shakes his head. Reminds himself that Lizzie isn’t here, that it’s just a memory resurfacing, not here, not real.

But it’s still impossible to go out in the dark and search for Alfie. He’ll stay, wait.

He pulls the blanket tightly around his shoulders and sets his eyes on the door. Alfie will come back, he will, he wouldn’t leave him alone at night, he- he wouldn’t

Tommy waits.

…

“Oh, you’re already up!”

He blinks, trying to make his stinging eyes focus. The fog that seems to have settled around him clears a little and reveals a room is bathed in greyish morning light that streams in through the curtains.

When did the sun rise?

Esther is standing in the doorway, arms full of clothes. “I was just going to put out some clean things for you,” she says and holds them up, her forehead creasing as she comes into the room and approaches the bed. “Have you been up for a long time?”

The question seeps through his head like a slow trickle of water and it takes a while before he’s processed it. He looks around for answers.

The spot next to him on the bed is empty and cold.

Alfie didn’t come back.

He woke up and he was gone and he didn’t come back and now it’s morning…

Finally he shakes his head, because Esther looks so worried, and it feels like it’s full of lead, lead or maybe mud that sloshes around in there, tumbling against his skull and making it throb dully. Esther nods, the wrinkle on her brow smoothing out a bit. 

“Good. It’s awfully early to be up;” she says and puts the clothes on the empty chair. “Perhaps you should try to sleep some more?”

This time he only shakes his head a tiny bit but it still aches.

Esther doesn’t push, just smiles and says, “Alright, maybe you’d like to come with me to the kitchen, then?”

Tommy wants to lie down, rest his head against the soft pillow and he wants Alfie to sit there and run his fingers through his hair and read to him…

But Alfie isn’t here. And he doesn’t want to be alone.

He brings his blanket along with him to the kitchen, wrapping it tightly around himself, pulls it all the way up to his nose and hopes the familiar scent will settle his frayed nerves. The chestnut sits there on his nightstand, but he leaves it, the blanket has to be enough. Can’t be doing all these strange things it’s-

“Not sane, clinging to things like that. No one in their right mind would-“

He leaves it.

In the kitchen, Esther goes about the usual morning routine, puts the kettle on and starts chopping an apple up into tiny pieces. The sound of the knife against the cutting board echoes in his head. Seeps in between the edges of the long scar and flares inwards. Even when the apples are all chopped and in a bowl in front of him it’s there, this persistent, gnawing ache. He can only sit there by the table and try to breathe through it, resist the urge to claw at the scar. Instead he picks up the fork and occupies himself with the apples, getting through the contents of the bowl one tiny bite at a time.

When he has to pause he looks up to find Esther watching him, clearly waiting for a response to something she’s said.

“It seems like mister Solomons is sleeping in today,” she repeats. “I can light a fire for you in the living room if you’d like. Or would you prefer to just stay here? I’m going to do some baking.”

“Can I stay?” he asks and feels stupid because she just _told _him he could, but Esther just smiles.

“Of course.”

Alfie doesn’t appear in the kitchen until Esther is taking the bread out of the oven. There are dark circles under his eyes, his hair is sticking out at odd angles and his forehead is folded into deep creases. He only grumbles a clipped ‘morning’ to her sunny greeting and then goes to sit opposite Tommy by the table, opening the paper without sparing him a glance.

His stomach ties into such tight nots that it almost makes the meagre breakfast come back up his throat.

See, didn’t I tell you this would happen? In the end, everyone tires of you-”

“I don’t know how long I can keep doing this.” Lizzie is far away, whispering. “It’s not getting better. Nothing is getting better.”

He tries to shake the voices out of his head but it makes the pain flare back up and he presses the heel of his hand against the scar.

“I was only trying to protect you,” Grace tells him softly. “You shouldn’t have gotten so attached.”

“God, Tommy, fucking stop that,” Alfie grunts and shoots him a glare. But it hurts and he can’t help himself, rubbing at the scar and curling inwards on himself.

“You gone deaf or something? Stop fucking fidgeting.” He receives a kick under the table and feels himself flinch. 

“Mister Solomons! What on earth has gotten into you today?” Esther exclaims and pins Alfie with a furious look. With nothing but a glare in response, Alfie gets up from the table with the paper in hand and stomps off, slamming the door behind him.

Tommy claws at the scar.

Crossing the room in two long strides, Esther sits down next to him, takes his hand away from his head and places it in his lap where she holds it still.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just in a strange mood today,” she says softly. “Could be his back causing trouble again. Always makes him act like a bit of an arse. Alright? It’s nothing to do with you.”

But it has. He knows.

…

He stays with Esther all day. She asks him to come along when she leaves the kitchen and he follows like a shadow.

Everything is bad and strange. He can’t put his finger on why, and knows that he could have, before. But now his head is the way it is and all he knows is that it’s bad. That he must’ve done something wrong. Grace tells him Alfie’s tired of him and that does make sense but he must’ve _done_ something too, but there are so many things to pick from that he can’t figure out what to change.

Until he has it’s better if he leaves Alfie alone.

He spends the afternoon curled up in a corner of the laundry room watching Esther hang rows and rows of sheets up to dry.

When Alfie comes in to read to him that night, he sits in the chair. Not the way it’s supposed to be, but at least he came. And listening to his voice finally makes all the others go quiet. They’ve been so loud all day. Tommy closes his eyes and just listens, can slowly feel some of the tension that’s been wrapped around his spine melt away, feel his limbs growing heavy and how he almost sinks into the mattress. The stubborn ache in his head seems to fade.

But then Alfie goes quiet and the chair creaks as he gets up. The dread in the pit of his stomach grows with every step across the floor. 

He curls up under the blanket and clenches it tightly between his fingers.

He wants to say something, wants to ask Alfie to stay, beg him not to leave him alone again but he can’t get a single word out. 

The door closes, and he’s alone.

He keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the wall opposite the bed, doing anything to avoid looking over to the corner and catch a glimpse of white fabric. And his eyelids feel so heavy but he can’t close them, can’t close them and fall asleep and wake up alone again. But the thought of being all alone in the dark all night is just as unbearable…

He pulls the blanket up over his head and waits for dawn.

…

The day that follows is bad. Worse. Things are slipping away again already, memories, thoughts and words falling out of his head like wet sand or mud, making it hard to understand when Esther speaks. Even more difficult with Alfie, the few things he does say. And they’re all so loud today, everyone, all talking at once.

He walks around in a daze, goes where he’s told to go, sits where he’s told to sit, tries and fails to eat when food is put in front of him.

Esther tells him he’s looking pale, a bit ill even, thinks that he should rest instead of going out in the cold, but Alfie doesn’t offer to take him for a walk so it doesn’t matter.

Alfie still comes in to read to him that evening. Which doesn’t make any sense, doesn’t make any sense nothing make sense- Alfie is angry, resents him, why wouldn’t he? Look at that scar, the ruined eye-

He listens even if it’s hard to keep up. Just to have Alfie close, to not be alone.

When Alfie closes the book and goes to leave, he can’t help himself.

“Stay.” 

Alfie stops halfway across the floor. Sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. 

He answers without turning to face him: “Just… close your eyes and go to sleep, alright?”

Then he makes for the door and Tommy gets out of bed on unsteady legs, hurries over and grabs his shirtsleeve.

“Please.”

“Fuck, Tommy, I need a good night’s sleep,” Alfie grunts, pulling his arm away and backing off. “It’s absolutely bloody impossible under these circumstances, with you waking up screaming every other minute.”

What did he do wrong? He tries to comb through his memories, find whatever he did but it’s everything, isn’t it? It’s everything and now he’s pushed Alfie away and he’s going to be alone, all alone.

Alfie shuts the door in his face. And he knows there’s nothing but an empty cavity in his chest, but something still breaks in there. 

…

It’s safer out in the living room, so he goes there, his chestnut clenched tightly in one hand and the blanket in the other. Alfie’s crow is back. It’s sitting on its usual place on the shelf, looking at him with bright, curious eyes.

He tells the crow it can’t disappear like that. Apologizes for scaring it that time, by the window. Then he shows it the chestnut, because it’s very pretty and since the crow lives mostly indoors perhaps it’s never seen one like it? The crow looks very interested in the chestnut, cocking its head and blinking, so he makes sure not to hold it too close. It’s his, so the crow can’t have it. Alfie gave it to him. It’s a gift, see? A very nice gift too. The crow seems to understand when he explains that and makes no move to take the chestnut. He tries very hard to ignore everyone else. The room is crowded, and they’re all being awfully loud. That’s not good. They’ll wake Alfie up and Alfie won’t like that, all these people in his living room in the middle of the night. John is sitting in one of the armchairs, feet propped on the table, and the gaping holes in his chest are leaking blood everywhere. It’s pooling all over the floor. That’s going to be hard to clean up and Esther already has enough to deal with.

When a hand lands on his shoulder he flinches, because they can’t usually touch him.

It’s Esther standing there, hair gathered into a long braid and with a knitted cardigan pulled tautly around her.

Her mouth moves but he can’t hear what she’s saying, there’s too much noise.

She looks so worried and it’s his fault.

The crow’s shelf is empty again. That’s not good, why can’t it just stay put? Then again birds are like that, aren’t they? Flighty… And it’s nice outdoors too, with the pretty trees and the grass-

“ -back to bed, alright?”

Esther wraps an arm around his shoulders and leads him out of the room. If all the blood on the floor bothers her she doesn’t let it show.

He obediently gets back into bed and lets Esther pile several blankets on him. Grace watches from the corner of the room, silent, head tilted ever so slightly. A bit like the crow. 

“Try to sleep a little,” Esther says and smooths his hair back. “It’ll get better if you sleep.”

Yes, better, he’ll sleep and get better and tomorrow he’ll show Alfie that he can be better so Alfie won’t be angry anymore and stay with him at night and tell him stories and take him to look at the trees and the grass. And smile at him again.

…

It’s too hard to get out of bed the next morning. Esther comes in with breakfast but his muscles have all withered away to nothing and he can’t sit up. When she talks he can barely puzzle the words together, can only manage a few at a time. Try to eat. Are you feeling sick? Do you need anything?

Is there anything I can do to help?

Alfie doesn’t come in. Esther is angry with him. He can hear them arguing, among all the other voices. He should get out of bed -_stay in bed_\- go out and tell them it’s okay. He’s all better now. Eat something, go for a walk, even if he has to go on his own. But he’s just very tired. It’s strange, being so tired but unable to sleep.

When it gets dark, Esther comes in to read to him. Alfie’s got a headache, she tells him. But tomorrow he’ll read an extra chapter and it’s nice to think of that. For a little while, Tommy pretends it’s true.

…

The hours are melting together. Bleeding into another night and another grey morning, it’s all the same. The way it was in the beginning. Maybe it was a dream, that space in between, the walks and Alfie reading and smiling at him and talking about flowers in the sunlight, it does sound like a dream. A nice one. But the chestnut is still in his hand, he hasn’t let it go, that way he can feel that it’s real. Remember that Alfie gave it to him.

It doesn’t really matter. Alfie is sick of him now. 

Far away, he hears someone talking. Hard to know who. 

“Alright, that’s fucking it, you’ve sulked enough.”

The voice is angry. Alfie is angry. He doesn’t want him to be angry and if he could sit up and eat and start talking again maybe he wouldn’t be so angry, but it’s too late for that, too little too late Alfie’s got a scar to remind him-

“Been four fucking days you’ve been lying here feeling sorry for yourself.”

He can only see Alfie’s legs, but he can picture him, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed. He closes his eyes, tries to shut the image out.

“Go on, get up.”

Maybe he’s already dead and buried, far, far underneath the ground. That’s why everything is so far away, why he can’t move.

Why is Alfie here?

Alfie curses. Strong fingers wrap around his wrists. It hurts. It’s the first thing he truly feels in days but it hurts and he doesn’t want Alfie touching him that way, wants him to stroke his hair and hold him and be gentle and-

“For fuck’s sake Tommy, sit the fuck up,” Alfie snaps. Pulls him upright, but he’s got no strength to stay that way. And he tries to tell Alfie but he can’t. “You’re getting out of this bed whether you like it or not.”

An arm wraps around his back. Numb feet on cold floorboards and he all but falls into Alfie. Just wants to feel safe again, feel something, anything.

“For fuck’s sake, you’ll have to at least stand up on your own! Fucking ridiculous-“

Alfie’s arms disappear and he grapples for support but gets a hard shove.

The floor knocks the air out of his lungs. He falls through it, through the surface of the muddy field and into the cold darkness, dirt and mud and rocks fall over him. He curls up, arms around his head.

“Fuckin’ ell it’s just one thing after another today, innit? Come on Tommy, get off the bloody floor.”

Alfie’s voice is far away, far above him it’s hard to hear through all the dirt and he wants to scream and beg for help, but he can’t make a sound. 

“What is happening in here?” Esther’s voice joins Alfie’s and her steps vibrate through the floorboards, thud against the packed dirt crushing his head.

Then they’re yelling, Alfie and Esther. At each other. He’s never heard Esther yell like that.

“Get out! Get out right now or so help me God I’m going to do something I’ll regret.”

His lungs are screaming for air but there’s no air here and a loud ringing fills his ears, drowning out what little he can hear of the voices. He grasps his head tighter, feeling the bullet move in there. Lodged in between the cracked bone and all those torn nerves

Then Esther grabs him and pulls him out of the mud, must’ve stuck her hands all the way through the ground because there were no shovels. Cradles him against her chest and holds him tightly.

“Oh, it’s alright love, you’re okay, everything will be okay.”

Then she rocks him back and forth as he gasps for air

“Let’s get you back to bed.

I can’t, he tries to say, but his throat and chest are full of dirt so it only turns into a feeble little whine. But Esther is strong, and his bones are hollow so she just lifts him.

He’s in bed again when he finally opens his eyes. Esther is sitting on the edge of the mattress, pulling all the blankets up around him. Her eyes are wide and sad, her mouth a tight, worried line.

“There we go,” she says and tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Safe and sound.”

“Do you see this? See what you’ve done?”

He closes his eyes again, can’t bear this.

And Esther runs her finger through his hair and it reminds him of Alfie, how for a moment he’d made him feel like something more than a burden or an obligation and now he’ll never-

“It’ll get better,” Esther whispers. “I know that everything feels pitch black right now, but it’ll get better.”

The tears come before he can stop them. Hot and wet as they trail down his cheeks.

…

Esther sits with him the rest of the day. She’s got a deep, worried wrinkle between her eyebrows that doesn’t go away, even though she tries to smile encouragingly when she brings him soup, then tea when he can’t eat. And then water when even the tea is too much. Sits him up and holds the cup to his mouth to help him drink. Lights a cigarette for him, but puts it out with a sigh when he only stares at it.

Already withered away, rotting in the ground, maybe his lungs have stopped working? Hard to smoke then.

Grace waits patiently in the corner. She won’t tire, even if Alfie has. Even if Esther is about to. She’ll be there.

“I promised, didn’t I?”

When the sun sets, Esther is still by his bedside. She’s reading, he can tell because her mouth is moving, but the words don’t make any sense. The letters are falling out, switching place. She looks pale and almost grey despite the light from the lamp, the way Lizzie’s face looks, the way they all look and it’s not fair to her.

“There’s no place for you here.”

He knows that. Maybe there’s never been, really, but it was easier to pretend when Alfie-

He closes his eyes and tries to stay still. It’s hard because he’s wracked with these faint tremors that won’t stop. But eventually he feels the featherlight touch of a hand over his hair, and then soft footsteps creak over the floorboards. Esther doesn’t close the door all the way, she never does. 

Tommy waits until the whole house has gone quiet and still that way a house only is when everyone is asleep.

It’s hard to get out of bed, very hard. He leaves the blanket there on the bed, it doesn’t belong to him after all and maybe he should find his old clothes? These aren’t his, but he’s not sure where Esther put his… But he pulls off the thick, knitted sweater and the socks, he’ll take as little as possible, so things can be just like they were before and Esther will go back to smiling with dimples in her cheeks and Alfie can have some peace and quiet, it’ll be as if he were never here at all-

He brings the chestnut, because that was a gift and it’s alright to keep gifts isn’t it?

“This is for the best, Tommy,” Grace’s voice is soft. She’s pleased now that he’s finally listening. “You’ll get to rest now.” 

The animals are gone from the hallway and that’s strange but maybe the they went outside? It can’t be nice for them to be indoors. The moon is shining in through the glass doors in the living room, casting a square of light onto the corridor floor. Better to leave through that door, the front door always creaks.

Maybe he should say thank you and apologize for everything before he leaves? No, it’s better to leave a note, he’ll do that, he’ll leave a note so they don’t have to wonder, so Esther knows, he can put it on the kitchen table and she’ll see it first thing in the morning before she even makes tea, she doesn’t have to look after him anymore… But he doesn’t know where Alfie keeps his pencils and maybe it’ll make Alfie angry, he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to use them-

It’s taken a lot out of him to just get out of bed and walk those steps out into the hallway because his knees, legs, all of him feel very weak. Maybe that’s why he ends up leaned against the wall opposite Alfie’s bedroom door.

“Tommy, you have to go now.”

He just needs to rest just-

“Tommy-“

-just wants to see him before he goes.

The door swings open quietly

He can just barely make out the outline of Alfie’s body in the dark, but he can hear his deep breaths. The familiar sound ignites an ache in his chest, and he’s so tired, so tired. Maybe he can rest for just a moment? And then he’ll go. Just a moment. Grace tells him no, but it’s easier to ignore her when he can listen to Alfie breathing in the dark. 

It’s cold on the floor, but it’s not too bad.

And he’s just going to stay for a short while.

…

“Bloody hell, Tommy, what are you doing here?” the voice is raspy and quiet. Maybe it’s the doctor, but the doctor doesn’t curse.

A pair of feet land on the hardwood floor in front of him. That’s strange, why is he on the floor?

“Fuck,” the voice curses again. “You’re bloody freezing. How long have you been here, hm? Floors really aren’t meant to be slept on… Tommy, go on, look at me.” He is looking, but everything is dark and blurry and he can’t focus.

“What have we said about this, Tommy, you can’t be sitting in places like this. You’ll get cold.” 

“Tommy, come on.” Someone shakes him. He blinks, tries to see who it is. Lizzie’s face appears in front of him, fades into Grace’s, his mother’s- father’s. That seems right. But he can’t remember his father having a scar like that… “For fucks sake why do you have to fucking be like this-“ A long string of words he doesn’t understand but that could be curses the way he spits them. “Fine, fucking stay there, see if I care, alright? Plenty of other fucking rooms to sleep in.”

Heavy footsteps and more grunted curses. The door slams. Dad always slams doors. Always has to be loud. The sound cuts through his head and he wraps his arms around it to somehow shield it from the white hot pain.

The room goes oddly quiet now when he’s left. As if everyone else left too.

Then the footsteps come back. More curses.

“Okay, yeah, yeah I know, I’ve gone all soft, haven’t I? Come on, up you go.” More shaking, he wishes it’d stop, tries to say something but all that comes out is a choked sob. A light flickers on and he squeezes his eyes shut. It’s too bright, too much. “Fuck, Tommy, I- come here-” there’s a twinge of worry in the voice now, and the hands finally stop shaking him. Instead he finds himself being pulled upright and held against a warm chest. “It’s alright, I’ve got you now. You’ll be okay, you’ll be fine…”

Alfie- Alfie, he has to apologize, make things right, he’ll be good, he’ll be so good and if Alfie just tells him what he’s done wrong he can promise never to do it again. And he _wants_ to apologize but the air gets stuck in his throat and his teeth chatter together too hard. Alfie’s arms wrap tightly around him -safe, safe, safe -

He tries to move and Tommy clings to his shirt “Shh, shh, I’ll just go fetch that hot water bottle to warm you up a little. I know you like that-“

_Don’t leave, please don’t leave please_\- All that comes out is this broken, guttural noise. Alfie hushes him again, laying a hand on the back of his head.

“Okay, okay message received, not going anywhere. How about we just, we just lie down then for a little bit? Yeah?” 

Alfie’s bed is warm and soft and full of blankets and pillows but it feels like he’s about to lose a limb when Alfie sets him down

“It’s okay, I’m not going anywhere, you’ll be okay.” Alfie lays down, covers them both with the blankets and pulls him close, rubbing circles over his back. “There we go. That’s better, innit? Yeah. You just need a bit of rest, don’t you?”

“I did something wrong I’m sorry, I- please-“ The words jumble together because he’s got too many to get out at once and it’s so hard to explain anything at all. Alfie continues hushing.

“Shh, shh now, you haven’t… done anything, alright? This is all on me. I’m just a fucking idiot. Got all up in my own head and fucked things up, didn’t I?”

He doesn’t understand and tries to ask but Alfie just keeps stroking his hair and hushing.  
  
“Doesn’t matter. You did nothing wrong. Well, you are more difficult to take care of than feral kitten but we’re managing just fine I reckon. Well, at least Esther is. But you’ve got nothing to worry about. Okay? Just sleep.” Alfie mutters into his hair. “And tomorrow I promise we’ll go for a walk and we’ll read and everything will be just fine.”

It doesn’t sound real. But the voices usually don’t tell him things he wants to hear, so maybe it is after all?

“This bed is more comfortable, innit? Granted it’s hard to find something worse than a hardwood floor to sleep on. Gravel would be a contender though-” Alfie talks and talks. Holds him so close that Tommy can hear the heartbeat in his chest. Feel his own heart mimic Alfie’s, finally slowing down. He tries to stay awake now, doesn’t want to wake up and realise it was all a dream, but finally his eyelids are too heavy and Alfie’s voice too soothing.

“Stay,” he whispers. 

“I’m right here aren’t I?”

Tommy tugs at his shirt.

“Stay.”

Alfie sighs. Squeezes him tightly. “Yeah. I’m staying.”

Tommy lets his eyes fall shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no limit to the angst. And Alfie is, predictably, terrible at dealing with things. But at least you got that last scene! That's something.


	15. The only thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie and Esther have a talk. Alfie tries to make things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it took a while but here's another chapter! Slow and steady, right? well I won't keep you -I'll let you get into it. Hope you'll enjoy it <3

“Sir, have you seen Thomas? He’s-“ 

Alfie had every intention of staying awake and watch over Tommy, but despite his best efforts he must’ve fallen asleep at some point. Because now he’s being brutally woken up to the sight of his housekeeper on the threshold to his bedroom, looking at him with both eyebrows raised and mouth slightly open, while Tommy is curled up so close he might’s well be lying on top of him. Before he can figure out what to do Esther is out the door with a quick ‘my apologies, Sir.’ 

Right. Fuck. 

As carefully as he possibly can while under the mounting feeling of impending disaster, he disentangles himself from Tommy’s skinny arms, tucking the duvet tightly around him and hoping that will be enough to mimic an embrace. Tommy stays asleep, hands now tucked under his chin. And _fuck_ if his heart doesn’t positively ache at the sight, and at the mere thought of leaving him alone again after the night’s events. He tries to shake away the pictures flashing by in his mind, Tommy curled up on the floor, pale and shaking and with tear tracks down his cheeks-

Right now, he’s got to do damage control. 

Blinking groggily and trying to kick his brain into gear after the brutal awakening, he staggers down the hallway and catches Esther only a moment later. He has to look down and make sure he’s somewhat decent, suddenly realising that clothes were the last thing on his mind as he rushed out of bed. Thank fuck, he’s wearing a full set of underclothes. 

It’s the little things in life, isn’t it?

“Well, Sir, I was just on my way to prepare breakfast. Did you have something on your mind?” Esther asks calmly, folding her arms over her chest and looking at him with… fucking amusement. The nerve of this woman, honestly. He should fire her on the spot.

He clears his throat

“This is- well, I don’t know what you think you just saw but I’d advise against paying too much attention to your own perception of the situation, right-“ he says, absolutely clueless as to where this sentence is going. “See, Tommy, he’s been… it’s been a rough couple of days, as we- well, we discussed it just yesterday, didn’t we? And last night I found him-“ He gestures towards the floor. Esther raises both eyebrows. “On the floor. And he was in a right fucking state, wasn’t he? Yeah. Somewhere else entirely, you know. Fuckin’ freezing too, because of course the floor isn’t meant to be slept on. So I figured I had to do something to calm him down, didn’t I? Only thing that usually works is holding him for a bit. You know what he’s like-“

Esther holds both hands up and the lack of air in his lungs is making them burn so he’s forced to take a breath, which is enough of a pause where his maid is concerned. 

“Sir, first of all,” she says, with the tone of someone embarking on a long monologue. And Alfie would fucking know, wouldn’t he? “If you don’t think I’ve known about the fact that the two of you have shared a bed for a while now you must think I’m both blind and stupid-“ He opens his mouth but Esther won’t be deterred, “And when I say _share_ I’m not implying anything at all. Furthermore I believe that what one choses to do in the bedroom is no one’s business but one’s own. And secondly it’s about time you snapped out of whatever nonsense you had going on in your head and did something about the situation.” The anger that’s been quietly simmering the past few days is apparently bubbling up again because her tone is absolutely ice cold when she finishes, “You, mister Solomons, may be completely blind to the kind of impact you have on him, but I’m not. And the way you’ve treated him the past few days broke his heart.” 

“Don’t you think I fucking know that?“ Alfie hisses and finds himself being dragged down the corridor beyond earshot of the bedroom, Esther’s hand clasped tightly around his bicep. “See that’s the fucking problem isn’t it? It’s- I can’t fucking do this! I never fucking asked for him to show up here.” 

He tears himself loose and steps back, arms crossed and clenching his jaw so tight his molars creak. They’re outside the living room now, caught in the sharp, grey light streaming in through the glass doors. Makes his eyes sting painfully, as if fucking nature itself has chosen to add insult to injury on this already shitty morning.

“But he did and you took him in,” Esther says. “And you can’t walk away because you’ve only now discovered that taking care of another person is a huge responsibility.” Her voice softens somewhat as she adds, “He adores you. Haven’t you seen the way he looks at you?”

The heat rising on his cheeks is as unexpected as it is uncomfortable, but he rolls his eyes and lets out what hopefully comes off as a dismissive scoff, “Fucking spare me. He follows you around like a duckling everywhere.”

“He only follows me around when you push him away. All he wants is to be close to you. To feel safe. And if you’re going to treat him this way then maybe it’s better for him to be with his family.”

It’s lucky they’re far away from breakable objects because Alfie feels the urge to reach out and grab something, anything, and hurl it into a nearby wall. But the only thing within reach is the door to the living room and that’s firmly attached to the wall, so he clenches his hands into fists instead. 

“His family?” he grits out. “You mean the ones who fucking did this to him? Who let it get to this point? Who… who’re not even _fucking_ looking for him?” 

“We don’t know what happened,” Esther says, far too calm and diplomatic. “You’ve noticed yourself how difficult it can be.”

“Oh, I’ve fucking noticed alright. And maybe fucking… none of us are equipped to deal with it. Maybe it’s- maybe it can’t be fixed. Maybe all we’re doing is stalling the inevitable and he’ll waste away in that bed despite all our good fucking intentions!” 

“Is that why you’ve been acting this way? You’ve just given up on him?”

Yes.

No.

Finally, he’s all out of words. Doesn’t happen often, but these are strange times full of ‘firsts’. They end up in a silent stalemate, staring each other down.

Alfie looks away first, turning to stare through the living room out the glass doors, at the water. It’s calm out there today. The sky is a steely grey, the kind of sky that forebodes rain. Maybe snow if it’s cold enough. 

What is he supposed to tell her? There’s nothing new to say. It’s all remarkably similar to the other interactions they’ve had about this the past few days. 

_Why are you doing this?_ Esther had asked. Outside the closed door to Tommy’s bedroom, from which she’d emerged after yet another failed attempt to make him eat. He’d been without answers then too. Couldn’t exactly tell her about the dreams, could he? Of waking up hard and panting with Tommy’s moans ringing in his ears. Of the foolish hope that distancing himself somewhat would help. _Need to fucking sleep_, he’d said instead. _I’m just fucking fed up with it all_. Which of course had only fuelled her anger and rightfully so. _It’s killing him. Can’t you see that? He’s fading away completely and you can’t even be bothered to go see him? _Voice trembling with fury. _Today I couldn’t even get him to drink._

And he’d been fucking moments away from firing her, just to make her disappear, take away all the reminders of what he’s done wrong. The only thing that stopped him was that tiny nagging thought in his head: if she leaves, Tommy won’t make it. And it’ll be all on your shoulders. 

Instead he’d stormed off to fire several rounds of bullets out over the sea, even if there’d been neither ships nor seagulls there

The sea is just as empty today. Sky too. Not a bird in sight.

“You know, if you find a baby deer in the wild,” he begins slowly, searching for the right words as he goes. “Curled up alone in the grass somewhere, looking all helpless, you might want to take it home, right? Because you get worried. But the thing is, they do that. The…” he waves his hand. “The… does. The mums. Whatever. They leave the fawn to go off and forage for food. Or when they sense a human is nearby. For all sorts of reasons. Doesn’t really matter, Point is that somewhere in the bushes the mum is waiting for you to fuck off so she can get to her baby, so you need to just leave it there. Because if you take the baby home, well then you suddenly have a fucking deer in the house. And once you’ve taken the deer in, you’re stuck with it.” 

Esther’s expression has softened a bit, he notes when he glances at her. She looks out the window too, shoulders slumping as she heaves a sigh. 

“And… surely you’re not equipped to fucking deal with having a wild animal in your house permanently, right?” he goes on. “But now that’s your only option, because if you release that deer back into the wild it’ll fucking die. See now the poor thing is dependent on you, fucking _relies_ on you for survival. And when you realise you’re in way over your fucking head it’s too late.” 

A small smile twitches at the corner of Esther’s mouth. “Well, that may be true. But if you take care of a bird with a broken wing, the wing will heal and you can eventually let it go.” 

“He’s not a bird.” 

“He’s not a baby deer either.” 

A ship is coming into view, a small speck of black on the wide horizon. 

“It might’ve been a mistake, all of this,”Alfie sighs. “I’m not fucking meant to be doing this shit.” 

“You’re doing alright. Most of the time.” 

He has to laugh at that. 

And then they stand there in silence, watching the ship travel slowly over the water. 

“You know, this really isn’t how a proper maid’s supposed to fucking act,” he says, another dry laugh escaping him. “Used to be at least some semblance of respect for my authority in this household. 

“Well, my priorities have changed. So I suppose you’ll have to fire me.” Esther says and smiles. 

And suddenly, for just that short moment, things don’t feel quite as hopeless.

When the ship is long gone in the distance, Alfie suddenly becomes aware of the passage of time. 

“I have to get back and check in on him,” he says and jerks his head towards the bedroom. “Don’t want him to wake up all alone.” 

“I’ll be in with breakfast in a bit,” Esther says and turns on her heel, leaving Alfie to brace himself in the hallway. 

When he enters the bedroom, he finds Tommy sitting up in the bed, all the blankets pooling around his waist and wide eyes turned towards the door. He very much resembles a bird in a shoebox. One with a broken wing that Alfie’s accidentally stepped on just as it’d begun healing.

Alfie tries to come up with an appropriate thing to say but he’s drawing a blank, unprepared to be confronted with an awake Tommy so soon. 

“Morning,” is what he settles for. Like a fucking idiot. _Morning_, what kind of thing is that to say to someone you found sleeping on your bedroom floor only hours ago? Catatonic and so far removed from reality they might’s well have been dead. And who’s giving you nothing but a vacant look with impossibly big, unblinking eyes…

“You should try and sleep some more,” he says when Tommy doesn’t respond to his stupid greeting, leaning against the doorframe just to have something to occupy himself with. “Got several days’ worth of it to catch up on I reckon.”

Tommy finally blinks and releases him with that unnerving stare to look down at his lap. Fidgets with something in his hands. Takes a moment for him to realise that it’s the chestnut. Right. That’s a new development. He can recall Tommy carrying it around everywhere a few weeks ago, but it’s mostly been relegated to various pockets or his nightstand. He’s not entirely sure what this development means but it doesn’t seem promising.

Well, at least it’s nothing sharp. Small fucking mercies.

“Oi, are you there at all?” he asks and steps a bit closer 

Still no answer. Right, time to fucking get over himself, isn’t it? In two long strides he crosses the floor and slumps down next to Tommy, grabbing his shoulder and squeezing. Tommy flinches, clenches his hands tightly around the chestnut. Doesn’t look up 

“Hey, you hear me, Tommy? Think you’d feel better if you slept some more.” 

He gives Tommy a moment, one two, three, to show any kind of signs that he’s aware of his presence at all. It’s a lost cause.

“Alright, we start off with getting horizontal, how ‘bout that? Makes it a lot easier to sleep in my experience.” Thankfully, Tommy lets Alfie lay him down against the pillows, eyes still glazed over. Alfie pulls the blankets up, tucking him in properly. “There we go. And now you just close those big blue eyes of yours and relax.” 

Said blue eyes now fastened on some distant spot no one else can see, Tommy just lies there. Like he’s done all week. The guilt twists his insides and Alfie wants to fucking flee the room, distance himself from the mess he’s made. Instead he reaches out, runs his fingers through Tommy’s hair. And Tommy visibly deflates, sinking deeper into the mattress. Long eyelashes flutter as he closes his eyes a little, just a shard of blue visible beneath them.

When Alfie shifts on the mattress to get comfortable, they fly open again and he reaches out, ice cold fingers clutching at his shirtsleeve

“Stay.” 

“Yeah, yeah, ‘course I’ll stay,” he croaks, voice thick. “Want me to read you something? I can fetch the book. Or the crossword-“ 

Tommy shakes his head, knuckles whitening as he tightens the grip on Alfie’s sleeve.

“Alright, alright, I see. Just… staying then.” 

Alfie shoves a pillow behind his back and settles against the headboard. And fuck it, he’s in way over his head already. Might as well admit defeat… He continues running his fingers through Tommy’s hair, marvelling at the way he completely melts under the touch, how all the tension and the fear that seems to have coiled itself around every fibre of his being fades. And with every passing second it becomes all the more clear how much Tommy needs this. Perhaps Alfie does too in some way. The feeling of content filling his chest when Tommy rolls over onto his side and presses his forehead against his thigh, letting out a pleased little noise, makes it abundantly clear that he at the very least _wants_ this. Might be a fine line between the two.

And why shouldn’t he be able to have it then? This tiny little earthly pleasure, having someone close for just a short while. Being some sort of comfort. It’s all very innocent, isn’t it?

Dreams are still just dreams. 

Besides, it’s broad daylight.

He can allow himself this. 

…

They spend the entire day in that bed. Tommy is in no shape to be up and Alfie is a man on a mission; to get him to sleep. With single minded intent on one goal, he usually accomplishes whatever he’s set out to do. But as past experiences have shown him, Tommy is the exception to most rules. And it’s impossible to get him to sleep. No matter how many his eyelids falls closed they open just as quickly again, and each time he clutches at Alfie. As if he’s afraid he'll vanish into thin air the second he closes his eyes. 

At least he obediently eats the soup Esther brings him. And yeah, they’re back to an exclusively liquid diet again. There’s this unspoken sense of defeat when she comes in with the tray. One step forward two steps backwards this whole thing, innit? But Esther gives him a look that tells him they’re not discussing that now. Tomorrow, maybe. If they can get some time alone. Today Alfie doesn’t dare leaving Tommy’s side for even a moment, afraid he’ll sink back completely into that disconnected fog. So he stays. Esther brings books. Several newspapers. And Alfie solves all of the past week’s crosswords while Tommy quietly watches. Then he reads, chapter after chapter until the entire book is finished and he has to open a new one. And still, Tommy doesn’t fall asleep and Alfie doesn’t leave the bed. 

Somewhere around dinnertime, it becomes unbearable. And no matter how he moves around he can’t get the fucking ache in his lower back to relent and he’s been needing to take a piss for the better part of an hour now. He closes the book and takes his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of the nose.

“Right, got to take a piss. Maybe wash up a little. I’ll be back in a few minutes, alright?” 

Tommy doesn’t seem to understand fully until he actually gets out of bed because then he looks up at him with wide, frightened eyes. 

“Stay.” 

And just like that, the anger sparks up, redhot and dangerous.

“God, Tommy, I have to be able to leave you alone for five fucking minutes,” he barks, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Is that too much to fucking ask? Can I take a piss in my own bloody house without feeling guilty?” 

Tommy’s gaze falters and he seems to shrink before his eyes. Shit. Yeah it’s like Esther says, innit? How’s he supposed to feel safe, when he keeps doing this? Just can’t seem to help himself,

He can, however, pause, calm the fuck down, and try again. So with a deep, slow breath, he goes back to the bed and sits down next to Tommy. 

“Right, sorry ‘bout that. Didn’t mean to sound so angry. Hey, look at me-“ He nudges his head up with two fingers under his chin. Hopes that his gaze is calm and steady. “I’ll only be in the bathroom for a few minutes, okay? Just behind that door, right there.” He points. “And I promise that I’ll be back. So I just need you to be good for me and wait here for a little while. Think you can do that?” 

Tommy nods, evidently not believing him, but that’s as good as it’ll get right now. Alfie goes to the hallway, fetches the cigarettes from his coat pocket. 

“There you go,” he says and lights one for Tommy, who reaches out warily. “Something to occupy yourself with.” He sets the ashtray down in his lap. “Just don’t burn yourself or something.” 

Tommy rubs the cigarette over his bottom lip and takes a long drag, mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ as he exhales the smoke.

Alfie goes to lock himself in the bathroom. 

He’s firmly set on going about things at his own pace, it’s a matter of principle really, but still finds himself doing everything twice as fast. Relieves himself and washes up as efficiently as he can, all while listening for any sounds coming from the bedroom. And even though the whole affair only takes a few minutes he’s imagined about fifty different scenarios in which Tommy could have managed to hurt himself while staying completely silent. 

Thankfully when he exits the bathroom Tommy is sitting right where he left him, worrying the chestnut between his fingers, the low light of the setting sun catching in his hair and lashes. The cigarette stub lies in the ashtray, a tendril of smoke still rising from the tip.

“See, didn’t I tell you?” he says cheerily. “Clearly you survived without my presence for a few minutes and now I’m back. Wasn’t too bad, was it?” 

Tommy hesitantly shakes his head.

“Right, let’s get back to the book then.”

He climbs into bed, reaching over to stub out the cigarette and put the ashtray on the nightstand. Tommy waits until he’s settled before resuming his position curled up next to his leg.

…

When sunset has come and gone, Alfie’s still reading, now in the yellow light of the lamp on his bedside table. He stays seated somewhat upright -needs must, if he lays down he’s undoubtedly going to fall asleep before Tommy and fuck knows how that will end. Tommy meanwhile is curled up on the mattress by his side, forehead somewhere in the vicinity of his hip. And he still has his eyes open. Finally, Alfie pauses mid-sentence and looks down at him over the edge of his glasses. 

“I know this may sound like a strange concept, but you could try closing your eyes completely. As pretty as they are I really don’t need to be staring at them every second of the day.” 

Tommy blinks slowly.

“You can sleep here,” Alfie clarifies. “Alright? And I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here. Just close your eyes and relax.” 

Deer require bottle feeding every fourth hour, don’t they? He can handle sleeping in the same bed as Tommy if that’s what it takes for the tiniest bit of improvement to occur. Even if that means he’ll have to get up and take a cold shower every so often.

A hand slowly emerges from the confines of the sheets and grabs the hem of his shirt. Cold fingers brush against his side. 

“Yeah, you hold onto that if it helps.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose again and goes back to the book. He’ll sit here all night and read if gets Tommy to sleep. 

In between the turning of pages he makes sure to reach down and brush his fingertips over the back of the hand still clutching his shirt. Until finally he just lets it rest there. 

After two chapters, Tommy is asleep. 

And for a long time, Alfie finds himself just sitting there. Quietly watching the rise and fall of his chest, the way his lashes rest against his pale cheeks. Sits there until his own eyelids become so heavy they’re impossible to keep open. He’s fucking _missed_ this, that’s his last conscious thought.

….

He never sleeps very deeply these days, even with Tommy safely back where he belongs. Or perhaps due to that. Always on high alert, isn’t he? So it’s not too surprising when he for seemingly no reason at all opens his eyes to a dark bedroom to find Tommy sitting ramrod straight in the bed next to him. 

“ ‘s too early to be up, Tommy,” he mutters and stifles a yawn. “Go on, lie back down.” 

Tommy doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s staring wide eyed at an empty, dark corner of the room, looking so utterly terrified it sends spikes of unease down Alfie’s spine. He reaches out, grabs his wrists and despite flinching at the touch, Tommy’s eyes are still fixed on the corner. So Alfie has no choice but to sit up and properly grab him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Shoulders that are trembling violently. 

“Come on, we’re going to lie down again, alright? ‘s as easy as that.” 

And when Tommy still doesn’t acknowledge him, he turns his gaze to that corner too, tries to see what’s gotten him so upset. But it’s not like he’s keeping any stuffed crows in his bedroom. Not in the whole house since Tommy began chatting with them. No, there’s nothing but wallpaper and an empty chair there. Still, something’s got him absolutely terrified. He carefully rubs his upper arm. Asks quietly, “Someone in here with us, eh, Tommy?” 

Tommy nods. For the first time when Alfie’s asked him about this.

“Alright. Who is it then?” 

But to that, Tommy just shakes his head. Clenches his hand into a tight fist around the chestnut. 

“Oi, would you mind fucking off?” Alfie grunts to the empty corner. “Pretty fucking rude, showing up uninvited in people’s bedroom.” 

Tommy’s eyes snap to him. Back to the corner, back to him, flickering with panic. 

“You- you can’t see, you can’t see. It’s not real, it’s not real it’s not-“ Only takes a second before a hand flies up to the side of his head but before he can start scratching, Alfie wraps both arms around him and pulls him close. 

“No, no of course not, sorry, sorry that was- that was stupid, 'course it’s not real” he soothes. “I mean in a way it _is_ because who’s to say what’s real or not, hm? But-” A distressed wail comes from his chest and he has to tighten his hold. _Not real, not real not real-_ Tommy keeps repeating that to himself, frantic, desperate.

“Well, what I’m saying is- it’s just things in your head spilling over, alright?” he says, searching for the right words. “Know that it’s scary. And maybe it doesn’t exactly help, knowing that. Thoughts can be just as scary as real things, I reckon, but that’s all it is. Thoughts.” 

Tommy grows quiet, the tension in the room fading slightly. Makes it easier to breathe. As if it’s the fear was his own. 

“And thoughts, well they aren’t always very rational, or even grounded in reality, are they? I mean you can have any old thought, odd idea, pass by in your head without it necessarily meaning something, right?” 

Tommy doesn’t respond, but he’s stopped shaking so hard. Appears to be listening, not that it’s always an easy distinction to make. Alfie strokes his back, rubbing circles over the protruding shoulder blades. 

“So, you don’t always have to pay attention to them. Sometimes you can just… acknowledge that you had one, and let it pass by. I mean I like to entertain the notion of what it’d be like being… a sealion, from time to time. Doesn’t mean I’d _actually _like to fucking be one, that’d be absurd. Even if they lead lives with far less sin and misery than us. Point is, thoughts aren’t dangerous, they just _are_. Okay?” 

Tommy nods, face still buried in his shirt. 

“And sure there’s plenty of time to think about why certain thoughts always want to come back but we can leave that for later. So for now let’s just… acknowledge this particular thought and wait until it passes. Okay?” 

Another nod. At some point he’s begun rocking Tommy back and forth ever so slightly. Just these tiny movements. Chin resting on the top of his head as he listens to the frantic breaths slowly ebbing out, feels the way he’s relaxed into his embrace, lets Alfie hold him completely. He allows himself a moment of relief at the feeling of the storm passing.

“They still here?” he whispers finally, as if his voice could break the fragile sense of peace. Doesn’t shatter completely but it cracks a little when Tommy nods. He doesn’t look up. But Alfie reckons he just knows these kinds of things. 

“Right then. We’ll just wait some more.” He runs a thumb down a sharp cheekbone. “Sometimes it helps to find something else to focus on. Give the thoughts a bit less space. Could tell you the story of how Ollie once locked himself out of my office and tried to get in by using a broomstick with a long ruler tied to the end of it. Truly a joys occasion for us all-“

He tells the entire story with as many inane details as possible. Talks and talks. Until Tommy has gone limp un his arms. Eyes closed, clutching the blanket loosely in one hand and the chestnut in the other. Asleep, finally.

Alfie carefully shifts, moving to lay him down onto the mattress. Careful careful, like laying priceless jewels into a cushioned velvet box, or returning a bird’s egg to its nest. Tommy’s lashes flutter and he’s entirely too close when he opens his eyes. He freezes halfway down, forgets what he was doing, head empty. All he sees is blue. Not sapphire, but like the sky or those pale blue flowers that shower the edges of the field in spring. Tommy looks up at him. Fingers grasp his sleeve. They’re breathing the same air now. It seems to tremble around them.

“We alone again?” he whispers.

Tommy’s gaze slips, but not to the corner, just travels further down his face. He nods. The fingers tighten their hold of his shirt and Alfie finds himself leaning in. Only for a moment he allows himself to imagine closing the gap between them completely, press his lips against Tommy’s, devour him whole- 

Then his eyes catch on the chestnut that Tommy is still clutching to his chest and he’s brutally thrown back into reality. He lays Tommy down, pulls away. 

“Suppose we can try to get some sleep then,” he says a bit too loudly. Thankful for the darkness hiding the heat rising to his face, he lays down, putting some distance between them. 

He closes his eyes and thinks of unpleasant things -slugs, the smell of rotting seaweed- anything to get his body back in fucking line. _Falling into thorny bushes, spoiled milk, Darby Sabini’s stupid mug-_

“I woke you up.” 

Tommy’s quiet voice abruptly interrupts his list. But it seems to have done its job by then. 

“Yeah, well, that’s okay.” 

“I can go.” 

“Do you want to go?” 

It’s dark and he’s closed his eyes, but he can hear Tommy shake his head. The way the sheets rustle under his head. 

“Well, then you’re staying. As simple as that, innit?” 

Tommy is so quiet and so far away that Alfie fears he’s sunk through the mattress or perhaps disappeared all together, but when he opens one eye to squint in his direction, he finds him still there, curled up on his side with his back against him, head bowed. Alfie follows the line of his spine where it pokes up beneath the collar of the too big shirt, a bruise marring the skin right where it dips below the collar. 

“You don’t want me here,” Tommy whispers. 

Alfie reaches out then. Runs his palm up along the nape of his neck until he can bury his fingers in the longer locks. 

“Hey now, don’t go assuming what I want or don't want,” he says softly. “I certainly don’t mind having you here. Always thought this bed was too big for just one person.” 

Tommy stays. Doesn’t move closer, or even turn to face him. But he stays. 

Alfie doesn’t move closer either. But he sinks his fingers into Tommy’s hair and keeps them there. It may not be enough, but it’s for the best. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading <3 and please do leave thoughts and feelings in the comments -I'm finally getting back into the swing of actually responding to them and they truly get me through the worst of the editing process and the occasional writer's block.


	16. To be alone with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie and Esther talk a little about the future. Alfie asks Tommy about his family. 
> 
> But they also get a little moment of well deserved peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments, as always <3 they never fail to make my day -I'll be replying to them shortly! I just had to get this one out into the world. Please enjoy <3

Alfie has accepted that for now ‘alone time’ is a luxury he can’t afford. Started to feel like a foreign concept too for the past few days, with Tommy following him like a shadow everywhere, wide-eyed and quiet with his blanket clutched against his chest with one hand and his chestnut in the other. It’s a new development, after the latest setback. And it’s the least he can fucking do, isn’t it? Let Tommy follow him wherever he pleases for now. (His talk with Esther might not be entirely unrelated to that conclusion). Even if it means he has to be mindful of his every turn and step because he might accidentally knock him over.

It’s been a trying couple of days.

But for now, on this particular late evening, Tommy's safely tucked into bed and has agreed to stay there. After the promise that Alfie will be back in just a few minutes with the hot water bottle. Because he loves that. And it’s cold. Fucking freezing in fact, to the point where no matter how many fires Esther lights, the temperature in the house is still below what is pleasant. Which means Tommy is cold. So, after some gentle persuasion he let Alfie tuck the blankets a bit tighter around him and climb out of bed, with only a worried stare into his back.

Esther is in the kitchen by the stove, stirring in a large pot with unknown content. The warm, hearty smell floats like a warm cloud over the room.

"What's this, then?" Alfie asks and peers into the large pot where a dark broth with various cuts of meat is simmering.

"It's one of my mother's recipes for beef soup,” Esther says and gives the pot a stir with a wooden spoon. “The one thing that kept us alive growing up, I reckon. At least my sister. She was always so picky with food, even when we couldn't afford it. Skinny as a rake, she was, but my mum had a knack for recipes that made whatever weight she put on stick to her bones. Don’t know why I didn't think of it sooner." She picks up a mug of tea precariously balanced on top of a stack of cookbooks it and takes a sip. "I'm going to try this with Tommy. Just with very small pieces of meat. A bowl or two of this a day would do him some good.”

Alfie hums, fills the kettle with water and sets it on the stove, leaning against the counter next to it to keep watch. There's a whole pile of what is presumably the rest of Esther’s recipes on the kitchen table, all handwritten in tiny, neat lettering, row after row. Too small for him to read without his glasses. 

"I should've thought of it earlier,” Esther says, still with very much focused on the soup. “And then when I finally_did_, I looked for the recipes and couldn’t find them anywhere. But _then_ I asked my sister about it. Turns out she had them, so now I'm testing them all. We'll start off with the soups and the stews. Easy to stomach and did wonders for my sister-" she nods to herself, takes another mouthful of tea before finally looking up from the pot, cheeks flushed from the heat, "Oh, did you need something, Sir?"

"Nah, just trying to warm up our frail little houseguest.” Alfie holds up the bottle. “He's cold. As per fucking usual. I gave this to him one of those first days and it was quite appreciated. And he seems to like to just hold onto things overall, you know? Warm, soft things." Even if she ducks her head, Esther’s faint smile doesn’t pass him by and he grunts, “What are you smiling about, woman?”

“Oh, nothing at all, Sir,” she says and keeps smiling down at her soup. “Nothing at all.”

He decides that he’s better of not knowing or lingering further on the subject, so he does the wise thing and shuts up.

They stand in silence by the stove, Alfie just staring at the kettle. Until eventually, Esther puts a lid on the pot and brings her tea over to the table. She digs out her glasses from her pocket; terribly outdated pair with tiny, round frames, that Alfie’s offered to replace on several occasions, only to be met by the same insistence that no, these are apparently the ones she intend to wear into her fucking grave… Esther starts flipping through the recipes.

“You knew him before, back in London, didn’t you?” she suddenly asks. One minute of peace is apparently too much to ask for in this household… 

“Well, _knew_ might be an overstatement but… yeah. Suppose I did. Somewhat. I mean one might ponder over whether we can ever truly _know_ someone, right? But as far as business associates go I might classify my relationship with our dear Thomas as that. That I… knew him.”

They’ve never spoken about this. Sure, Esther knows who Alfie is. No gruesome details or anything but enough for their arrangement to work. Felt like something of a necessity. Esther is the kind of maid who knows things whether you tell her or not, so it’s better to just be upfront in the first place. But she’s never asked about Tommy. It’s been this unspoken thing between them. Perhaps because everything surrounding him is so fragile, like crossing a barely frozen river full of cracks, where you have to watch your every move to avoid falling in. He suspects Esther might know a thing or two about Tommy and his past life -his picture was in the bloody paper a few weeks back wasn’t it?- but that she’s chosen to not ask any further questions. And he hasn’t told her anything. Feels like betraying a confidence. Like he’s told Tommy during all those dark nights: This is Margate, and here you can come to escape your past sins.

“What was he like, if you don’t mind me asking?” Esther asks. Alfie scratches his beard and shifts from one foot to the other, still watching the kettle. Trick is to take it off before it starts whistling because by then the water is too hot. So this really is a task that demands all of his attention. 

“He was, well, nothing like this,” he mutters eventually. “Didn’t talk much then either but the similarities stop there. Then again he’s always- I suppose the cracks have always been there. Just used to be a few more pieces holding them together-“ he catches himself, feels like he’s said too fucking much. “Didn’t really know him too well, did I?”

“And still he came here,” Esther says in that all-knowing tone of hers.

“Yeah that, that wasn’t-“ he clears his throat. “Wasn’t really related to our previous relationship. And it’s not like he’s thinking straight. Who knows what kind of fucking logic he’s operating on?”

Esther hums and quietly observes her recipes. He feels the need to fill the silence and interrupt her train of thought and says, “He’s a gypsy, you know. Suppose that’s why he enjoys the outdoors so much. It‘s what they’re like, innit? They need to be… free to roam around. Not made to be cooped up anywhere.”

Esther raises both eyebrows and gives him a look over the edge of her glasses, “Well, Sir, I didn’t think you were the kind to believe old prejudices.”

“Only believe them when they’re true, don’t I?” He takes the kettle from the stove and fills the water bottle with the utmost focus and precision. “Which this one definitely is. See I, being from a persecuted people myself, can recognize such things.”

Esther smiles to herself, shakes her head ever so slightly. A very rude gesture from an employee all things considered, but something he chooses not to comment on.

“Think he likes horses,” he says instead. “Which isn’t something he’s ever said out loud. But from what I gather about his previous interests and business practices… yeah. Think he likes horses.”

“Maybe you could give him one.”

He nearly scalds himself on the hot water, curses and sets the kettle down. Esther looks as calm as ever, idly flipping through her papers.

“What?”

“Animals can be very beneficial for conditions like this,” she says. “He might like that, spending time with a creature he doesn’t need words to communicate with. Getting some more fresh air. Doing something he used to enjoy.”

“I can’t buy him a fucking horse. Then what am I supposed to do with it when he-“

Alfie falls silent and just stares at the bottle.

Esther is blissfully silent too.

“It‘s not permanent, this. He’ll… I mean it’s not like he’ll fucking live here forever-“

The cork. He needs the cork for the bottle-

“Where is he supposed to go then, Sir?”

Where the hell has it gone? He scans the countertop.

“Back home. To his family. It’s where he belongs, innit?”

“You said it yourself, things can’t have been good if he chose to leave the way he did. And of course we hope that he’ll improve, even if things seem bleak right now. But even so, there’s a very real possibility he’ll never recover completely. To the point where he can live alone and take care of himself.”

“He’s got enough money to hire someone,” Alfie mutters and finally finds the cork where it’s hidden away in a dark corner of the countertop behind a teapot. 

“He feels safe here,” Esther says softly. “It’d be cruel to rip him away. And he needs more than just some hired help. All people do.”

Yeah. They do, don’t they? Whether they fucking like it or not.

This is not a route of thinking Alfie’s allowed himself to take. This was all very fucking temporary to begin with, just one crisis after another that he’s tried and at times failed to avert. Then, suddenly, time has passed and Tommy has become this permanent fixture in his life without him ever really giving it any actual thought. Which should be terrifying and set him straight.

Only it doesn’t.

The thought of sending Tommy away however, that makes his chest feel oddly tight.

“Should probably start with a dog,” he grunts and Esther flinches, apparently lost in thoughts too. “Or a cat. Always seemed like more of a cat person to me, Thomas.”

Then he goes back to the bedroom.

Tommy is under the blankets, a small lump underneath all the covers with only a tuft of dark hair and two big blue eyes meeting him when he returns.

“There you go,” Alfie puts the water bottle next to him on the mattress before climbing onto his side of the bed, at a respectable distance of course.

Tommy pulls the bottle in under the covers and curls into a ball, looking quite content. Doesn’t take much, does it? Alfie picks the book back up and flips to the right page. Sets the glasses on the bridge of his nose. Finds the sentence he left off on. And asks, “What are your thoughts on cats, Thomas?” 

Tommy blinks up at him, long lashes fluttering and eyebrows twitching.

“Cats,” Alfie repeats. “You know, those hellish, furry little creatures who’ll put their claws into you at any given opportunity.” Tommy furrows his brow. Doesn’t say a word. Perhaps it’s a hard question to answer. He decides to elaborate. “I mean I’ve always been more of a dog person, obviously. Not that I really mind any of the critters God put on this green earth of ours, save for the bloody seagulls then, but I don’t precisely trust cats, do I?”

“I like them,” Tommy decides and buries his nose in the blanket.“Yeah, thought you might.” Alfie reaches down and tucks the blanket around his shoulders.

“What about horses eh? I mean I’ve only assumed you like them.”

“Yeah.” 

“Do you miss riding?”

“I don’t know.” Tommy says, lingering on each word. Far away, as if the questions have led him into his own head. Alfie shifts a bit closer and puts a hand there. Scratches lightly over the nape of his neck. “I think so. I miss… the horses. Being around them.” 

“What about your family, hm? Are they on par with the horses?”

The words slip out before he can think and Tommy goes completely stiff, breath hitching. He combs his fingers gently through his hair.

“See, we could get in touch with them if you wanted to. If you wanted to talk to your children, for instance.”

Before he can even blink, Tommy has bolted out of bed. Fuck. Alfie’s after him just as quickly, his reflexes if anything have gotten better, and he catches him halfway across the floor, blocks his way and grabs his shoulders.

“Hey, what’s all this about then? Just a fucking question, innit, no need to be rushing out of bed like that.”

Tommy’s eyes are wide and empty, staring past him at nothing and he curls inwards on himself, the way he does when he’s scared, when he wants to disappear, when everything’s too much. He tries to get past Alfie, hand pressed against his scar.

Alfie catches him in a hug and holds him there, holds him still as he quivers and tries to pull away with those godawful noises bubbling up his throat. He grabs his wrist, pulls his hand away from his head and holds it against his chest. Then he walks him backwards towards the bed and pulls him down to sit on the mattress. The further away from the door the better. Tommy is whining like a wounded animal, rocking back and forth and fighting against the hold Alfie has on him. Alfie presses his head against his chest and holds it there, covering the scar with his hand.

“Shh, shh, ‘s okay. I get it. That made you go someplace bad. But it’s just thoughts, alright, just thoughts, and there are new ones coming all the time. You don’t have to get hung up on this one. Just let it pass.” And he hushes and soothes and whispers all the things that usually help. They do now too -Tommy relaxes slowly, head growing heavy where it rests on Alfie’s chest. And it’s wonderful, in its own strange way, innit? Like learning a new language and finally having enough words to put together whole sentences. Finally making a lick of sense to whatever person you’re trying to hold a conversation with.

“It’s better this way,” Tommy whispers finally.

“Is that why you left, hm? Because you figured it’d be better if you weren’t there?”

Tommy curls into him, doesn’t fight anymore but the tremors still wrack his small frame. Alfie strokes his hair.

It’s pretty fuckin painful to think about it, imagine that after everything, Tommy still thinks his family would be better off without him. Which they aren’t -Alfie would bet his good eye on that. But truth to be told he doesn’t know, does he? Any decent fucking family would at least grieve if one of them disappeared from the surface of the earth. But the Shelbys are not decent people. Tommy’s got enough to deal with. Shouldn’t have to concern himself with what his family does; if they’re looking or not. If they miss him or not. And what does it help, telling him sweet lies?

“They miss you. Of course they fuckin’ do. That doesn’t mean you have to do anything about it, but I need you to know that, alright?”

And still he does.

“You don’t know that,” Tommy chokes out, tensing up again. “You don’t know them you don’t- you don’t _know-“_

“Shh, shh, listen to a wise old man for a bit, will you? You’re very usually observant but right now your brain’s a bit preoccupied trying to mend itself. So just fucking listen to me when I tell you that they miss you. ‘course they fucking do.”

Tommy shakes his head. Goes back to clinging to him rather than trying to escape.

“No one came,” he whispers, this tiny, broken sound, barely audible as he whispers it into Alfie’s chest.

“When?” Alfie wonders. Swallowing down the sudden flash of anger as he rests his chin on top of Tommy’s head.

The only response he gets is a trembling breath as Tommy buries his face in his shirt.

….

Alfie lies awake thinking about it, long after he’s finally soothed Tommy enough to fall asleep. The Shelbys. How things might’ve been for him, before he showed up here. If keeping him here really is the right thing.

They don’t fucking deserve him. They had their chance, didn’t they? And look what happened. Probably hypocritical, this righteous anger. Of course it is. He’s managed to fuck up plenty of things where Tommy is concerned himself. But he’s just a retired old man who’s doing his best to take care of this lost bird who crashed into his windowpane entirely uninvited and turned his peaceful life fucking upside-down. A bird who previously shot him in the fucking face. He’s allowed a few fuck ups, alright? Family is different. Supposed to do better. And there’s a whole bloody army of them.

Tommy stirs in his sleep. Curls up tighter. Burrows into the blankets. One of them has slipped down below his shoulder and Alfie very carefully pulls it back up, resisting the urge to run his finger across the pale cheek. Right below the delicate skin under his eye, where the long lashes rest.

No. They don’t deserve him.

But does _Alfie _deserve him?

He rolls over onto his back and closes his eyes. Counts each and every one of Tommy’s quiet breaths until he falls asleep.

….

Alfie wakes up alone in bed. Which has him worried for a brief moment of sleepy confusion, before he discovers that the sun is shining into the bedroom. Which means it’s not the middle of the night and Tommy hasn’t wandered of somewhere to converse with a crow or find sharp glass shards to play with. Well, evidently he has. Wandered off, that is. But just to the bedroom window where he’s sat on the wide windowsill, one knee pulled to his chest and the other dangling over the edge. Dressed in that far too large jumper, the one with the sleeves long enough to cover his hands. He’s rolled them up now, to allow him to hold the cigarette. The other hand is clasped in his lap. Still hasn’t let go of the chestnut, then.

He looks over to the bed, as if sensing that he’s being watched. Their eyes meet for a short moment before Tommy lowers his gaze.

“There’s snow.”

“Snow?”

“There’s snow,” Tommy repeats and points out the window. “Outside.”

“Oh outside, you say. Now that’s a new and exciting concept. As opposed to all the snow that usually materializes inside.” Alfie grins and shoves his hands behind his head. And the tiny huff Tommy lets out could almost be a proper scoff. If he tries really hard he can imagine him quirking one of his eyebrows and giving him one of those old, familiarly unimpressed looks. Alfie nods towards the cigarette. “And what have we said about smoking before breakfast, eh?”

“Nothing,” Tommy says with a tiny shrug. Opens the window and blows a cloud out into the cold air. Yeah, that’s the stuff, isn’t it? Alfie could almost let him get away with it. But rules are rules, aren’t they? Even if this is one he might’ve neglected to mention. So he climbs out of bed, brings an ashtray and puts it in front of Tommy. 

“Go on, put that out. You can continue inhaling that poison once you’ve eaten something. We don’t need more shit ruining your appetite. You know that, right? Yeah? That smoking is fucking… detrimental to any potential drive to eat.”

Tommy closes his eyes, takes one last drag that he exhales just as slowly, and stubs the cigarette out.

“Good boy. Now if you could just muster up that same enjoyment for food, we might be getting somewhere.” Alfie sets the ashtray down and reaches around him to close the window. “Sorry about that,” he says when Tommy flinches at the sound.

“Let’s go and give breakfast an attempt, hm?” he steers him towards the door with a hand on his back. Tommy looks towards the snowy landscape outside the window. There really is an unusual amount of snow out there, enough cover the branches of the trees and blanket the yellow grass on the fields.

“Can we go outside today?” Tommy asks.

“Yeah, today we can go outside,” he promises. “Just got to bundle you up properly. Esther will have my fucking head if you get a cold from wandering around without the proper attire. You have to be prepared for mittens. Just a warning.”

That almost earns him a proper glare. Almost.

Breakfast is a quite successful affair where Tommy eats the usual apple and a few spoonfuls of the porridge Esther’s cooked (“It’s made out of millets. Think the texture might be easier for him. Oats are out of the question I think). Stares suspiciously at it for a bit first, but Esther puts a dollop of honey on top of it, smiles one of her usual encouraging smiles and says ‘just try it, love. You don’t have to eat all of it. Just a few spoons’

If someone told Alfie three months ago that there’d come a day where he’d sit in his kitchen with Thomas Shelby and be overjoyed about the fact that he just managed to eat a something more substantial than an apple and broth, well he would’ve laughed until he fell over dead. Or at the very least scoffed. Perhaps congratulated them on coming up with such an absurd idea. And yet here he is. Feeling strangely proud as Tommy slowly empties the small bowl. 

And as promised, afterwards, they go outside. Esther equips Tommy with two extra sweaters and two pairs of thick socks. Even finds him a pair of mittens, dug up from God knows where. Tommy seems sceptical but obediently puts them on. Still with the chestnut in hand, so that gets to go inside of the mitten. Alfie doesn’t bug him about it. 

After promising Esther to not walk to far and tire Tommy out, they’re out the door. 

It’s too bloody cold. The kind of cold that creeps in under your skin and settles in your bones. He’s never understood people who like it. Doesn’t trust them either. And what’s the payoff? Some fucking snow. Sure it’s pretty enough, but at what cost? Creating a hazardous environment for every unlucky sod who has to traverse it. Not to mention it only stays pretty for about an hour before turning into grey sleet. Plenty of other beautiful things to adorn one’s surrounding with if that’s what one is after. Flowers. Pictures of… ships. Pretty men with big blue eyes that can sit in one of your armchairs and gaze softly at you while you read to them.

These are all things he tells Tommy as they slowly walk down the snow covered path. Except that last one, of course. Tommy doesn’t seem to agree -he’s watching the snow crunch under his boots with something akin to real fascination as he slowly shuffles through it. At one point he even gives it a little kick to make it blow up into a flurry. It’s fucking endearing, is what it is, which is yet another in the long line of rather concerning developments on _that _front.

“Reckon we should head back,” he says once Tommy’s cheeks have picked up some colour. They can still see the house in the horizon, haven’t even gotten to the chestnut tree Tommy likes so much, but he’s got to be reasonable here. Tommy’s just spent almost a week in bed without eating, he’s in no shape to be walking, even after the meagre breakfast.

Tommy looks longingly down the path, but nods.

“We can go further tomorrow,” Alfie says. “Alright?”

“Alright.”

It was a good call to turn back; Tommy is noticeably shaky, swaying ever so slightly on his feet. Alfie keeps an eye on him. Walks even slower and wishes he’d latch onto his coat-sleeve, the way he used to. But Tommy just focuses on the ground. Until suddenly, his eyelashes flutter and his knees give in under him. Thank fuck Alfie’s one step ahead and has already reached out and grabbed him. He pulls him close to steady him.

“You okay there?” Tommy struggles, all uncoordinated limbs and unsteady knees, but Alfie holds him firmly. “Hey, stop being an idiot and stay where you are. I’ve got you. Do you need to sit down?” Tommy shakes his head but finally leans into him.

“ ‘m just tired.”

Alfie nods. “Yeah, yeah ‘course you are. Figures. Think you can walk home? I can offer some support, if you’ll do an old man the honour.” He offers his arm to Tommy who only stares. Alfie practices his newfound patience and finally he interlocks his arm with Alfie’s, holding on tightly. “There you go, and now we just take it one step at a time and pray Esther lets me keep my fucking balls once she discovers I’ve tired you out.”

Alfie begins leading Tommy back along the snow covered path, trying to not enjoy himself too much when he leans into his side and squeezes his arm a bit tighter.

And if they should happen to walk like that all the way home, there’s no one but the odd crow there to witness it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There HAD to be some fluff involving sweaters and snow and mittens. We need it. we deserve it. Hope you enjoyed it<33


	17. Interlude one -meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shelby family have a meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re finally checking back in with the Shelbys and paying them a short visit. It’s long overdue but I wanted to get the rest of the story to a certain point first -I hope it doesn’t feel too out of place. Bit of a different chapter in the same style as the prologue (aka not really getting too far into anyone's head), and not super long. But the next one is on the way. Hope you’ll enjoy it!

Arthur has stopped locking his front door. Ada walks straight in without knocking and steps over the muddy boots haphazardly thrown right by the threshold. Sighs when she passes the wet coat lying in a sopping heap further inside.

The large house is eerily silent and her steps echo as her heels click over the hardwood floor. She doesn’t bother calling out -no use anyway- and takes the familiar way through the kitchen out in the second hallway and into the living room.

Arthur is sprawled on the sofa. The stench of whiskey is draped like a heavy blanket over the entire room, strong enough to almost make her eyes water. The bottle has slipped halfway out of his hand as it dangles over the edge of the sofalike a pale spider, knobbly and wired with blue veins. He’s snoring, mouth hanging open and head tilted back over the armrest.

“Arthur.”

Despite her sharp tone, her older brother doesn’t as much as stir.

She walks up to him, grabs his shoulder and shakes.

“Come on, Arthur-”

He grunts and bats at her hand as if she was a particularly annoying fly, covering his face with his forearm.

“Fuck off,” he grunts.

Ada continues shaking him, until he finally moves his arm his and blares up at her, eyes red and lined with dark circles.

She crosses her arms over her chest and sets her jaw.

“Good morning. You look like shit.”

Arthur closes his eyes again and tries to roll over, but Ada surges forward and grabs him again.

“No, none of that. We have a meeting to get to.”

Arthur has taken to solely communicating through grunts, and lifts the half empty bottle towards his mouth. Ada snatches it away from him and is rewarded with yet another grunt before Arthur makes a move for the bottle. She steps out of his reach and he sits up, following the bottle like a starved dog chasing a bone. Another step backwards solves that.

“Think you’ve had more than enough,” she says dryly. “I’d like you to be somewhat conscious today.”

Arthur is sprawled on the sofa again, head hanging over the back of it. Hands rubbing over his face, he heaves another sigh that seems to empty the room completely of air.

“You don’t need me at that fucking meeting,” he rasps, voice gravely from disuse, too much whiskey and God knows what else.

She takes yet another step back when he reaches for the bottle again. Finally, Arthur gives up. Collapses -elbows on bony knees and head bowed, overgrown hair falling over his eyes. Wrings his hands together, knuckles whitening.

“I can’t fucking- I can’t see them,” he grits out. “Can’t stand fucking looking at them.”

“Well fuck_ them,” _Ada says. “I need you there.”

He stares at the floor, eyes glassy. Clenches his jaw tightly. Ada sits down next to him. Reaches out and takes one of his cold hands into hers. Squeezes it gently.

“We’re still here. Me and Finn. And we need you there.”

Five minutes later, they’re in the car.

Ada is driving, Arthur has folded himself into the passenger seat and is staring bleary eyed at the grey landscape outside. A light snowfall has covered the grass, but the sky is heavy with rain now. It’s been dead silent since they left the house.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Ada finally says.

Arthur keeps staring out the window as if he didn’t hear her at all.

“What’s it going to amount to? Wandering around the countryside at all hours. Wading again and again through that fucking river. You’ll catch your death before you find anything,” She glances quickly at him before the winding road demands her attention again. “He’s gone Arthur.”

“Don’t,” Arthur hisses. “Fucking- Don’t say that. We should be out looking. All of us. We should fucking look until we find him.”

“We did look.”

“Well we should've looked harder!" Arthur roars. Slams his hand so hard into the door that the windowpane rattles. “Should’ve dredged every fucking river from here to Glasgow! Searched every bloody inch of every overgrown fucking field. Every single ditch by every forgotten backroad and every half-dilapidated barn. Until we fucking_ found _him.”

“Arthur-” Ada softens her voice, lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. He settles down, fist falling down into his laps.

“I can’t stop thinking about it.” He clenches and unclenches his fingers. Over and over again. “Can’t fucking- get the thought out of my head. That he might've walked off somewhere and curled up to die like some injured animal. All alone. And we- we couldn’t even find his fucking body.”

Ada simply looks at the road ahead. Blinks a few times and bites the inside of her cheek. 

They’re silent the rest of the way.

…

“Ada, Arthur! How good of you to finally join us,” Gina scoffs when they enter the boardroom, ignoring the look she receives from her husband. Polly is stood by the window, cigarette in hand. She doesn’t even turn when they enter. Arthur's hands ball into fists again. Ada simply casts an icy stare in Gina's direction. 

Michael is sat by the head of the table, Gina to his left. Meanwhile Lizzie has placed herself at opposite end, shrouded in a cloud of smoke and impeccable curls as stiff as her spine. She offers Ada a slight curl of the lip as she enters and Ada reciprocates with a just as faint smile. She goes to sit next to her, shoving Arthur into the seat beside her.

“Where’s Finn?” he grunts, scanning the room from under furrowed eyebrows.

“Probably busy elsewhere, as he so often is,” Michael says without looking up from his papers. “But we’ve done enough waiting, and we all know he has developed a habit of missing these things as of late. So I propose we get started.”

Arthur opens his mouth to protest but Ada taps her foot lightly against his shin under the table and he snaps it shut.

“Well,” Michael begins, letting just that one word roll slowly off his tongue as he folds his fingers on top of the table, gazing around at the gathered family members. “Our first item on the list: I’ve had a meeting with a Mr Williams about our new exporting license, which I’m sure you’d like me to go over…”

In excruciating detail, Michael catches everyone up to speed on his dealings with various associates in America, a longwinded speech that leaves Lizzie lighting yet another cigarette and Arthur impatiently bouncing his leg and glaring daggers at Michael, Gina and Polly respectively. Ada keeps her face carefully blank and avoids to look at her aunt, who has yet to even give her a passing glance.

“And then we have the continued issues surrounding… Thomas’ inconvenient disappearance,” Michael says and the atmosphere in the room shifts as everyone sits a bit straighter in their chair. “At this point, the rumours are getting away from us. I have reporters calling my office at all fucking hours, and I’m sure they’ve tried reaching you too-“ he looks around the room for confirmation, but receives nothing but blank stares from Lizzie and Ada, and another sharp glare from Arthur. He turns his attention back to the papers in front of him as if he’s got this written down. A business matter like any other. “Not to mention Oswald Mosley, who is a whole separate fucking issue. One that I’m currently spending far too much time and energy dealing with. So, to get these people off our backs I propose we officially have him pronounced dead-“

The silence that follows is deafening.

Michael takes it as a sign to continue. “We will have a small notice put into the paper stating he died after a prolonged illness, and ask that they respect our privacy in this time of mourning. That will most likely be enough to deter them for now.”

By his side, Gina nods approvingly and puffs her chest out.

“So that’s it, is it?” Arthur’s whole face has gone red. “We’re just fucking… giving up?” 

“Arthur, Tommy is gone,” Michael says with a tone of finality. “You have to accept that.”

Arthur flies to his feet and Ada follows, ready to keep his hand away from the holster she knows is hidden under his suit. His hand remains a clenched fist by his side. 

“Well, Michael,” Lizzie begins calmly. “I have to say, I would’ve appreciated to be let in on this plan. He’s my husband, after all. Not to mention I have two kids at home, who are my first priority. And who I’ve tried to shield from all of this. But that will be very difficult if all of Birmingham suddenly thinks their father is dead.”

“How long are we supposed to be waiting?” Gina snorts.

“You were supposed to fucking _find _him. Not- fuck, not-” Arthur chests heaves, wild eyes turning from Michael to his aunt as he spits, “Did you know about this? How- how the fuck can you just let him do this?”

Polly purses her lips and raises her eyebrow. Takes a long drag on her cigarette and exhales the smoke before answering, “Tommy brought this onto himself, and I think this family deserves some peace after everything he put us through. Whatever happened to him it’s nothing he didn’t deserve.”

Arthur takes a step back as if someone slapped him across the face, staring at his aunt with wide, unblinking eyes. Vein throbbing in his forehead. His hand twitches and Ada shoots forward to block his way, but he turns on his heel and storms out of the room.

The door slamming makes the windows rattle.

Ada looks from between the closed door, to her aunt.

“How could you say that?” she asks, the faint, barely there tremble in her voice betraying her emotions for the first time since the meeting began. Polly simply exhales another cloud of smoke and lays an arm across her lap as she leans back in her chair. Turns to look out the window as if this whole affair is beneath her.

“Oh please,” Gina scoffs. “No one here could stand him while he was still alive, I don’t see why we should act all weepy and pretend to miss him now. Good riddance, I say.” She waves a pristinely manicured hand and laughs brightly.

Polly’s face remains carefully expressionless as she gazes out the window.

“We’ll have a proper funeral, of course,” Michael says in a weak attempt at diplomacy. Gina laughs again.

“And who on earth would attend that?”

“I think we’ve heard enough from you Gina,” Lizzie says sharply. Gina leans back with a roll of her eyes and a faint smirk. Pinning Michael with an icy stare, Lizzie says, “We are not having a fucking funeral. Not without a body.”

Polly is still looking out the window at the steady rainfall, the smoke around her clouding as she takes one last drag on her cigarette. She stubs it out in the ashtray and says, “As far as I’m concerned, he can rot in whatever river he ended up in.” 

Ada finally snaps.

“We fucking get it, alright, you’re still angry,” she hisses, eyes boring into Polly’s. “It’s impossible for you to forgive him. But let me remind you that Aberama knew exactly what he was getting himself into and made a choice . He knew the risks. So did all of you-” she looks furiously around the room, “And as far as I’m_ concerned _you can all go to hell.”

On her way out Ada slams the door to the boardroom with as much force as she can muster and sets off down the corridor, blinking away the tears welling her eyes and furiously rubbing at her cheeks when they fall anyway.

At least the rainfall outside hides them.

Arthur is in the car. He’s sitting there in the passenger seat, hands clasped tightly together in his lap, eyes downturned, crimson and puffy. But at least he’s there.

Ada gets into the driver’s seat and clasps the wheel with trembling hands. In the rear view-mirror she sees Lizzie exit the building, cigarette smoke trailing behind her in the damp air as she walks with long strides towards a car where a driver is already waiting for her.

“Drive,” Arthur rasps out. “Or I’m going to go back up there and do something I regret,”

Ada drives. 

Her hands don’t stop shaking until they’ve left Birmingham behind and there’s nothing but grassy hills around them.

Then, she stops the car. And they sit there, staring out at the pouring rain as it eats away at the thin layer of snow on the ground. 

She wipes at her cheeks again, smudging dark makeup across her skin. The rain patters on the roof of the car, hard and hollow against the metal. Trails down the windshield and blurring the view, the trees melting into wobbly, dark spots in the distance. Arthur’s raspy voice is barely audible over the sound when he finally speaks, “Do you think he was scared?”

Ada can’t answer, can’t even open her mouth. Keeps her jaw clenched tight.

“I keep thinking-” he swallows. His hands shake. “Keep wondering if he- if he was scared out there. If he was cold. And if he had- had to fucking to die like that. Cold and scared and all alone.”

He grips at his hair, fingers digging into his skull. Folds under the weight of it all. “Can’t get the image out of my fucking head. All the, the fucking blood. Felt like carrying Billy- he didn’t weigh anything at all. Already. Fucking already. How could we have let it go that far? Why didn’t- why didn’t we fucking notice?”

Ada shakes her head slowly. Swallows, swallows, swallows-

“It wasn’t supposed to fucking be like this,” Arthur chokes out. “He was- was going to get better-” Then he falls forward, head in his hands and shoulders trembling, Quiet sobs that grow into a howl. Ada reaches over. The embrace is awkward, at a strange angle and with too much space between them but Arthur clings to her anyway. Buries his face in the fur collar of her coat and cries.

And the rain keeps falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And no worries, next chapter we're right back with Tommy and Alfie. Please do leave a comment if you'd like -they always make my day <3


	18. Bottom of the river

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy is self conscious. Alfie accidentally makes it worse. Nights are still difficult

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with the angst -please remember the tags with this one!

Alfie’s bathroom is larger than the one in the guestroom. The tub too, so deep Tommy could sit up and still have the water reach his shoulders, but Esther never fills it all the way. Alfie has begun sitting with him again. Back turned and muttering complaints, just like before, but he’s there. So the water doesn’t matter. It’s easier not to pay attention to the voices when Alfie is there

”So, I was thinking, perhaps you’d like some new clothes?” Esther says, tugging him out of his own head and into steam lingering in the room after the bath. (‘s fucking boiling hot, Tommy? How the fuck can you stand it? Alfie’d grunted) He’s sat in front of the sink and Esther is next to him, watching him through the foggy glass of the mirror, razor held away from his jaw.

“I have clothes,” he answers once he’s put enough words together, tugging at the large, knitted jumper. 

“Yes, but perhaps you’d like some nicer ones?” She gently tilts his head a bit to the side to reach a patch of skin below his jaw. Eyebrows furrowing in concentration as she shaves the last bit. “That actually fit you. Even if I do hope we can put some more meat on those bones you’re never going to quite fill them in.”

He nods slowly and states, “Alfie is big.” Big and strong with sturdy arms that can shield Tommy from all the bad things and a broad chest and stomach with a good amount of softness to huddle into. Esther smiles and wipes the razor off, folding and slipping it into the pocket of her apron.

“Yes, because mister Solomons is a quite large man,” she says and picks up a hairbrush. “And you’re on the smaller side of the spectrum.”

Through the scent of soap and shaving cream he thinks he can smell damp wood and molasses. A myriad of voices and hurried footsteps, bustling with activity. A figure approaching from the dark belly of the brewery, uneven steps and wide stance exaggerating his hulking frame- _Put him down Ollie…_

“Only little.”

“Yes,” Esther says, voice soft. “You’re only little.” Straightens up and meets his gaze in the mirror. The dimples are back when she smiles. That’s nice. She begins brushing his hair and he closes his eyes. The bristles scratch gently across his scalp.

“I’m going into town this afternoon for some groceries, I could pick something up for you if you’d like. Maybe not a full suit but a pair of trousers and a more well fitting shirt perhaps? Unless you’d like a suit, of course.” 

He used to like wearing suits, before. Can’t remember the feeling of actually liking it, but can recall it as a fact. As if it’s a story he’s been told about someone else. Used to enjoy feeling put together. Like wearing armour. Expensive wools and cottons they could’ve never dreamed of growing up, things successful people wore. No one would ever spit at someone in a nice suit. No one would ever sneer and call names after them in the street.

He used to like looking in the mirror and knowing he was protected.

Now, he avoids his own reflection, can’t bear it. Face too thin, hollow and gaunt and with the ever present dark circles under his eyes. Thin, blue lines like a spidery web underneath them, skin sickly pale. The eyes are worst. As long as he avoids those he can almost pretend the face belongs to someone else. Even if he can’t avoid seeing the rest of his body, is all too aware of the pronounced ribs and hipbones. Bony knees and protruding collarbones.

It’d be worse, wearing a suit. Like dressing up a corpse for the funeral trying to hide the fact that it’s been rotting for days.

He looks down at his hands where they lay in his lap. They’ve never been pretty, too wide, with stubby fingers and broad palms. They look even worse now, fingers skeletal between the broad knuckles, nails bitten down. Unnaturally large on the thin wrists, scarred by teeth and lingering scratch marks.

As ugly as the rest of him.

Esther is waiting patiently for him to say something.

_Alright,_ he should say. That will make her happy, Esther only wants to help.

He pulls the sleeves on the jumper down over his hands, fingers clenching around the soft fabric. Can’t look up when he answers, “I like these.”

“That’s really all that matters,” Esther says, voice soft and kind as always. “Then we’ll put off buying something new for the time being.”

She continues brushing his hair even if there are no knots in it and he closes his eyes again.

…

Alfie brings up the clothes too. Later that day when they’re in the living room, and he’s half asleep beneath his blanket, curled up in the armchair and listening to the wind blowing outside and Alfie’s voice as he reads.

“So, Esther tells me you declined the offer of some attire that won’t fit you like a potato sack.”

At first he thinks it’s part of the book, so it’s only the prolonged silence that makes him open his eyes and realise Alfie has both eyebrows raised and is glancing sideways at him over the edge of his glasses.

“Yes,” he says hesitantly.

Maybe Alfie will be angry.

“Thought it was funny, is all,” Alfie says with a shrug. “Fact that you turned down an actual suit. Always were such a sharp dresser, weren’t you? Couldn’t imagine you taking those fucking suits off to bed, even. Almost thought someone sewed them on.”

Tommy pulls the blanket up a bit higher until it covers everything but his nose and eyes, drawing his knees up against his chest. Suddenly wants to crawl out of his own skin. Doesn’t want Alfie to notice things about the way he looks, doesn’t want to think about the fact that he has to _see_ this all the time-

“Not that it matters,” Alfie says, letting out this dry chuckle. “Bet you’d turn heads wearing an actual potato sack. It’s what you get for being pretty, innit?”

  
The words send a sharp stab of shame through his gut.

He looks down at the carpet, tries to fix his eyes on something, anything. Wishes Alfie would go back to the book, but he can feel his eyes on him.

“Don’t act so bloody surprised. You know that already. And don’t for a second think that’s got something to do with me or personal fucking preferences, alright, because it definitely doesn’t.”

He forces himself to glance over at Alfie, trying to read the situation, make his broken head put the pieces together and understand what he means. But he can’t.

Does Alfie think he’s pretty? He usually says whatever is on his mind. Wraps it up and makes it almost incoherent sometimes but he’s not cruel, wouldn’t say one thing and mean another. 

Then he thinks of his reflection. And feels stupid for considering it even for a second.

Alfie harrumphs and turns his attention to the book again, muttering, “It’s not as much a question of opinion as it’s an indisputable fact. Sort of like saying the grass is green, innit? Grass is green, your gin always tasted like shit, and you’re easy on the eyes.” 

Alfie is turning pages, staring intently at them.

It doesn’t make sense, doesn’t make sense and why does it bother him so much? It shouldn’t matter, it shouldn’t hurt this much-

“Again, that’s just an objective fuckin truth, innit? Got nothing to do with me or my own personal opinions and if you’d stopped ten random people in the street and asked them they’d say the same thing. Bet half the blokes you’ve looked at with those big fuckin eyes of yours have thought it too. The way you-“ Alfie twiddles his fingers like he’s playing a piano. “Bat those long bloody lashes. Impossible not to think about them.”

“Do you?” Tommy asks, puzzled. Slips up. Just wants to understand, why is it so fucking hard to understand anything?

“What?”

“Think about them.”

Alfie’s cheeks have gone red under the beard and he shoots him a glare.

“This was not a conversation about me, I was merely pointing out a truth, which I often do without being met with this kind of insolence. And no, for the record, I don’t. Have enough things to focus on, don’t I? Like finding the right bloody page in this book.” 

If he didn’t know better he’d think Alfie was embarrassed.

“Forget I fucking said anything, alright?” Alfie grunts and waves a hand. “Just… forget about it. Let’s focus on more important matters, like the sudden but not unexpected appearance of a dog in this story. Took them long enough, considering it’s in the fucking title-“

Forget about it. Yeah, he can do that.

He pulls the sleeves further down over his hands and closes his eyes, settling into the soft cushions again. Lets the fog settle over him, wrap him into a daze where nothing matters except the sound of Alfie’s voice.

…

“Tommy. Go on, I‘m not fuckin carrying you.”

He must’ve dozed off. The room is dark save for the warm specks of flickering glow from the fireplace. Alfie is leaning over him, the orange light catching in his beard and making his eyes look soft. Tommy yawns and falls back into the pillows. They’re nice and he can too sleep here, Alfie doesn’t have to carry him anywhere. Though that would be nice too.

“No, no we’re going to bed, alright?”

Alfie grabs him and hoists him upright. Drapes the blanket over his shoulder. Puts a large, warm hand on his back. Tommy yawns again. 

“Come on, let’s get you to bed and we can sleep more there.” ****

Alfie’s hand is there all the way to the bedroom, all the way until he’s on the bed where he curls up with the blanket, wanting to stay in this pleasant fog. 

“No, no, see you have to actually get under the covers. Maybe take off some clothing if you’re going to be somewhat comfortable.”

Really, Tommy is too tired to do anything at all but he should listen to Alfie. He keeps his eyes closed and fumbles with the belt. The sound of Alfie’s footsteps across the floor makes him open his eyes just a little. Alfie will be right back, right back it’s all fine- He listens to the sound of the water running in the bathroom as he slips into the pyjamas without bothering to button it. Curls up under the familiar sheets, as close to Alfie’s side as he dares to. Alfie needs space when he sleeps which is strange because he has vague memories of being held after the nightmares. But it seems so long ago.

The repulsive figure in the mirror flashes by. No wonder Alfie doesn’t want to be close to him. But at least he lets Tommy sleep here. It’s better than being alone. He should be grateful.

You always want more.

Take and take but you’re never satisfied…

Greedy-

The voices are interrupted by the bathroom door creaking and he opens his eyes a tiny bit to watch Alfie exit the bathroom, pulling a fresh undershirt over his head. He gets a glimpse of a broad chest scattered with dark hair before closing his eyes again, feeling like he’s intruding.

The mattress dips as Alfie climbs into bed.

“Look at that, already asleep, ain’t you?”

“Have to read,” he mutters and the words come out a bit slurred, but Alfie seems to understand and chuckles softly. Reaches out and runs his fingers through Tommy’s hair. He relaxes into the touch. Can’t move or open his eyes. Like being under a thick, heavy blanket that muffles the sound of the voices and protects him from the spectres in the corners.

“Sure, sure, we’ll read. Let’s just give it a minute, eh? Just a minute.” Alfie scratches lightly over the nape of his neck, down between his shoulder blades. It sends pleasant shivers down his spine. And before he knows it, he’s asleep.

…

Then he’s awake again, sitting up in bed, cold sweat covering his back and chilling him to the bone, staring out into the darkness. Gasps to force the air down his lungs past all the mud pressing down on his chest, filling his throat and his mouth, damp fog creeping in under his skin and making him tremble. He wipes away the tears. Instinctively reaches for Alfie but Alfie is still asleep. He’s moved away from Tommy to the opposite side of the bed, turned his back against him. Tommy’s left sitting there on the mattress, hand hovering inches above his shoulder. 

Grace is sat in the chair in the corner, hands in her lap and head tilted ever so slightly.

He closes his eyes. It’s just thoughts, nothing else, it’ll pass, it’ll pass- Tries to remember Alfie’s words. But the pressure on his chest, the mud, the all-encompassing dread that swallows him whole, it’s too much, he can’t do this without Alfie- Can’t do it alone.

“But you’ll always be alone, don’t you see that? As long as you refuse to listen to me. It’d be so easy. No one cares if you disappear. No one wants you here.”

The pathetic, broken sounds begin bubbling up his throat, he can’t help it.

He finds himself in the living room without remembering how he got there, pacing over the rug in front of the cold, burnt out fireplace.

Tries to breathe, focus on the way his feet feel against the rug underneath them, feel something that’s _real._

Grace watches silently from the corner, expression cold. Watches him struggle to just stay above the surface, sinking a bit more with every passing second. The mud is closing in, slowing his steps as his feet sink into it. A trickle of blood seeps from Grace’s right hand where it clenches around the sapphire, dripping down and blooming into stains on the wood. He’s stopped, can’t feel his feet anymore. She drops the sapphire and it shatters into a thousand pieces all over the floor, a sea of glimmering shards that scatter the hardwood. 

Moonlight catches in them. Dangerous, razor sharp edges-

Alfie’s hidden all the razors.

He picks up one of the shards. A large, one, so large it can’t have come from a small sapphire, so large it lays in his hand like a blade. Grace’s eyes stare back at him from the reflection in the hard surface and he blinks, they shift into someone else’s, blue and bloodshot and full of fear. Those are his eyes. Maybe if he cuts them out and drops them onto the floor they’ll shatter just like the sapphire, turn into these thin, blue shards.

“Tommy, what did you do?” Lizzie calls for him, quick steps coming towards him down the hallway.

He squeezes the shard harder. Red droplets creep up around the edges of the glass.

Lizzie’s eyes are wide and frightened. She approaches slowly, both hands held out. 

“Shh, just put that down, okay? I’m sorry that I yelled. No one wants to hurt you.”

The shards crunch beneath his bare feet as he takes a step back.

“Of course they want to hurt you,” Grace says. “After everything you’ve done.” 

The blood keeps dripping down onto the floor. Dripping and pooling between the shards. He can taste it in his mouth, cold iron on his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, words catching in his throat because his heart has lodged itself there.

“Oh, you’re sorry?” She smiles, just this faint curve of her lip. All he wanted for so long was to see that smile, now it just makes cold sweat break out on his back. “Well, that changes everything, doesn’t it?”

“Tommy-“ Lizzie says softly and reaches for him but he doesn’t want to go back to bed, doesn’t want to be alone in the dark bedroom again with the locked windows and the closed door. “Let’s go back to bed. The doctor is just going to ask some questions, he’s not going to hurt you.”

But he can’t answer any of the questions, can’t even speak, always does the wrong thing and Lizzie looks at him with those sad eyes and the voices whisper behind the closed door about treatments and new things to try.

Footsteps approach him across the floor. Heavy and familiar. The shards vibrate against the wood with every step.

“Tommy, that’s enough! Let go of the glass.” 

“They’re going to hurt you, Tommy.”

There are too many voices, too close and he can’t tell them apart can’t tell-

Arms wrap around him from behind, try to hold him still and he slams his head backwards. A loud roar of pain erupts, “Fucking hell son of a bitch!”

He falls and the world shifts, fog dissipating, floor rocking underneath him. Lizzie is gone and instead Alfie is standing there above him, clutching his nose, face screwed into a pained grimace. Desperate for some kind of anchor in the storm, he crawls backwards until his back hits the armchair, curls up there and clutches at the fabric. The shimmering glass is gone. Sapphires, no not sapphires, glass from the mirror, the one with a heavy gold frame in the hallway outside his bedroom.

Alfie grunts in pain, looks down at his bloodied hand and quickly tilts his head back to stave the blood flow. A drop falls onto the floor and an animalistic whine cuts through the air. It’s him making those noises again. They erupt from his throat, far beyond his control and along with them they bring a loud ringing in his ears. Alfie takes a step forward, reaches for him, but has to bring his hand back up to his nose when the blood starts pouring. 

“Fuck, fucking hell,” he curses, backing away again. “Stay there, alright?” 

The panic crashes over him like a wave when Alfie disappears from the room, pushes all the air from his lungs. His ribcage closes in around his heart and the pain makes him lose his breath.

He tries to slow his breathing, tries to let it just pass, but it’s too hard without Alfie here.

Alfie, Alfie will be so angry with him

“This is what you do, this is what you always do. Wherever you are, people end up getting hurt.”

He curls up as tight as he can, gnaws at the inside of his cheek, cowers under his arms, tears at his hair but nothing helps and with every breath, the ringing in his ears become louder. Needs to hold onto something to keep himself from sinking through the floor into the mud that threatens to swallow him whole.

The floor vibrates under him as heavy footsteps enter the room again.

“-going to touch you, ‘s that alright? Think- any further injuries?” Alfie’s voice sounds muffled and there are words missing from the sentences. He grabs Tommy, one hand on the back of his head, keeping it still. Fingers wrap around one of his wrists.

“Yeah? There we- let go of -for a minute-“ 

Alfie slowly pulls him away from the chair and into his arms, hands firm enough to bruise. Keeps talking, incoherent and too far away. The words _something, cold_ and _tea_, float through the noise. He wraps both arms around Tommy’s chest and pulls him to his feet. The floor is gone, he can’t feel it, can’t feel anything, but Alfie keeps him upright.

Somehow it’s the crushing embrace that grounds him. Alfie grounds him, pulls him into his reality, where there are no voices or mud or dripping blood or sapphires, just warmth and the familiar smell of tobacco and pine.

And he breathes, breathes, breathes that safety in through his nose, focuses on the soft fabric against his cheek and how sturdy Alfie’s arms are. Nothing else, nothing else.

Then, Alfie is walking somewhere, moving him along, he keeps his eyes closed, tries to push his face into his shirt.

“Yeah, yeah I know,” Alfie mutters. “I know.”

They step into warm light. He blinks, dazed, world out of focus. They’re in the kitchen.

“Go on, sit,” Alfie sits him down on a chair and he folds himself up as small as possible, tries to hold himself together. Alfie pulls the blanket tightly around him, all the way up to his chin. He’s got his nose stuffed with cotton wads, soaked with blood.

“Don’t look at me like that. ‘s not broken or anything,” he mutters. “Weak as a kitten, you are. Should probably be thankful for that. Now, let’s see if Esther’s spoiled me too much or if I can in fact still make decent tea.”

It’s a noisy affair, Alfie making tea. Slamming the pot down onto the counter, splashing water everywhere, muttering to himself. Tommy follows his every move, wishes he’d come back, feels like he’s floating out of his own body, lightheaded, can’t feel his hands-

The chair scrapes loudly over the floor when Alfie pulls it up right next to him. The tea splashes over the edges when he pours it into the cup.

“Milk? Yeah, you’re getting that whether you like it or not.”

The cotton wads are gone when he sinks down onto the chair with a grunt and it creaks under his weight. He leans back, puts a wet rag onto the bridge of his nose and points towards the cup.

“Now we’re going to drink this tea while we sit here for a bit, where it’s warm and bright. And then we’re going back to bed. That’s the plan, alright?”

It’s hard to make his body obey but he manages to nod.

But his hands are shaking so hard and he can’t feel his fingers. Making them close around the cup is difficult, making them hold it still is impossible. The tea sloshes out over the edge down onto his fingers but he can’t even feel it-

“Fuck, put that down before you burn your fucking fingers off.” Alfie grabs his wrist and takes the cup away from him. “Really are out of sorts tonight aren’t you?”

He takes a mouthful of his own tea. Sighs. Puts his cup down and picks Tommy’s up instead.

“Yeah, go ahead and drink. At your own pace of course, I’m just lending you a hand.”

He holds it to his lips until Tommy opens his mouth and drinks. The heat from the tea seems to reconnect him with his own body as it seeps down his throat. Alfie doesn’t ask anything, just sits there with the cup, allowing him breaks in between each small sip. 

When the cup is empty, he takes him back to the bedroom.

“There. Sleep,” Alfie says gruffly and pulls all the blankets up around him before laying down on his side, far, far away.

Tommy closes his eyes. Whispers a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah? Well next time I’ll just keep my fucking distance.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats because what else can he say?

“Stop fucking apologizing and go to sleep.”

He never used to apologize and now he can’t seem to stop, now that’s all he is; sorry for everything all the time. For taking up space, for still being here, for everything.

He curls up as close to the edge of the bed as possible. Tries to not breathe so loudly but it’s difficult when each breath catches in the back of his throat.

Alfie sighs and he chokes back a sob. He should go to his own room where he won’t be in the way, but Alfie promised he wasn’t, said he could stay. Maybe he regrets it now, when he sees how bad it is.

He’s about to get out of bed when it creaks as Alfie moves.

“Fuck it, come here,” he mutters and then he’s wrapped up in his arms, pulled into a tight embrace. “There you go, think you can calm down now? Yeah, just breathe, and try to stop tensing every muscle like that. That’s better. No need to get so upset. Think this fucking nose hasn’t had a million times worse? On multiple occasions, mind you.”

Alfie holds him close, close, until he can feel his heartbeat as if it were his own. And he must feel every awful, bony angle, protruding ribs and spine and all, but he doesn’t seem to care.

Tommy does as he’s told and relaxes, huddles closer when Alfie tightens his grip. Protecting him from all the bad things.

And he finally feels safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there you have it: angst, but also some comfort (god Tommy's mental state really is a two steps forward one step back kind of thing. Three steps backwards sometimes) 
> 
> Thank you as always for reading! If you feel so inclined I do always love to hear what you thought! 
> 
> Will hopefully be back soon and keep up with this almost half decent upload schedule


	19. Move on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some news reach Margate. Alfie is less than pleased.

As per his new routine, because Lord forbid anything is ever easy, Alfie wakes up in the middle of the night, shirt sticking to his back and with a groan caught in his throat. Tommy is plastered against him, one arm wrapped tightly around his chest and face buried in the crook of his neck. Warm little puffs of air blow against his skin as he breathes and one of his legs is slung over Alfie’s hip. That definitely weren’t there when they went to sleep. But he’s migrated even closer during the night, craving the warmth. And yeah that leg? That’s definitely a fucking problem.

Alfie finds himself breathing too harshly, heart beating loudly in his ears, can almost feel the blood pulsating through his entire body.

Carefully, he inches Tommy away from him until he can safely climb out of bed. To hide in the bathroom. Doesn’t even dare fucking breathing until he’s locked the door. Then he lets the water from the faucet run cold and splashes it over his flushed face.

He doesn’t remember the dreams. Rarely does. Only in those dazed moments right when he opens his eyes, when he’s not entirely aware it was a dream at all and Tommy’s warm body is pressed up against him, further blurring the lines. But the hard cock pulsing between his legs is all the reminder he needs.

_Fuck._

He leans heavily against the sink. Closes his eyes and thinks of that list he made -sour milk, wet socks, thorny bushes- but it doesn’t really work tonight, he’s too far gone already.

When he wraps his fingers around his cock, he tries to at least picture someone else, some other pretty thing, with… green eyes perhaps. Lighter hair.

It’s useless of course, trying to be logical about it. His body knows what it wants. And with the arousal clouding his mind like warm, heavy fog, all he can think of is Tommy.

He comes so hard he doubles over, hanging onto the sink as his hips move into it.

The return to the real, logical world afterwards is as brutal as always. What fucking business does he have indulging in behaviour like this? He’s not an animal, bound to give in to his baser instincts. And now he’s fucking stuck in here, because it’s too much to handle, the thought of opening that door and getting back into bed next to Tommy, or worse yet, finding him awake and terrified because he’s been left alone. Looking at him with those big eyes of his, trusting Alfie to hold him until the nightmares fade again without any ulterior motives or indecent thoughts.

Then again just leaving him alone out there for the rest of the night isn’t an option either.

He unlocks the door and stands there with a hand on the doorknob, stuck between a rock and a hard place. He closes his eyes and thinks of black mould- Tommy’s face, lips parted, long lashes resting on pale cheeks.

Alfie draws himself bath.

Lying there in the hot water at least wrings the tension from his muscles, always something. And his thoughts clear slightly. He’s skilled at compartmentalizing. No use in lingering on mistakes past, right? He just needs some time to breathe and then he can go back out there and focus his energy on nursing his poor bird back to health. Can even pretend it was all a fucking dream. Maybe he sleep walked and just ended up here in the bathroom and decided to have a soak while he was at it? Entirely possible.

But this was the last time. Last fucking time-

There’s a knock on the door.

“Alfie?”

He clears his throat before answering, “Yeah? I’m here. Just having a bath.”

Which makes him reflect upon the fact that it’s indeed a strange fucking thing, taking a bath in the middle of the night.

  
Tommy, predictably, says nothing.

“Needed it to help with… back pain,” he calls then. Which isn’t a complete lie. Silence. He thinks of Tommy standing out there, wrapped in his blanket and staring at the door, terrified of some otherworldly spectre Alfie’s left him alone with. He pinches the bridge of his nose, silently congratulates God on having a wonderful fucking sense of humour, and calls, “You can come in. Door’s not locked. And I’m all decent. Or at least covered in suds.”

The door opens and in steps Tommy, unruly locks sticking up at odd angles and with the trusty blanket firmly clasped against his chest. Alfie checks again to make sure the water is adequately soapy in the right places.

“You need something, eh?”

Tommy’s eyes are a bit too wide. Darts in various direction. Alfie doesn’t much care for the idea that he might be sharing this room with a ghost right at this very moment. He motions towards the chair where he usually sits to make sure Tommy doesn’t drown while he’s bathing.

“You can sit over there. If you don’t want to be alone. Just got to warm up my joints for a bit and then we’ll go back to bed, alright?”

Tommy closes the door before seating himself on the chair, back turned against him. Alfie sinks a bit deeper into the bath. The room is laden with strange tension. Because even though they’ve been in plenty of strange situations together, this new one beats all of them.

“Baths truly are one of the very good things in life, eh?” he mutters, to break the silence. “Good for many things, aren’t they? Aching joints and bones. Warding off sickness. Or just be a nice, completely useless and unproductive activity one can indulge in.”

Tommy has pulled both feet off the floor, always needs to make himself as small as possible.

He glances quickly over his shoulder at Alfie.

“Yeah, yeah, still here. Promise I’m not vanishing into thin air.”

Tommy is fidgeting with the blanket.

The strange mood in the room lingers. Alfie listens to the droplets from the faucet as they hit the water. Tries to come up with something to say, any useless story, true or not, will do, but his brain seems to have shut down. On his chair, Tommy is so laden with tension that he vibrates with it.

“Fine, fucking hell, come here,” he says and waves Tommy over as he glances over his shoulder, puzzled. “Not into the fucking tub obviously. But you can sit here if you’d like.” He motions towards the general area right next to the tub. It’ll all around make for an even more awkward situation but he doesn’t fancy having to climb out of the bath and help Tommy down from a full on panic attack. This is the better option.

Tommy obeys, doesn’t even bring the chair, just pads over on bare feet and curls up on the floor next to the tub. And fuck it, he likes what he likes. Seems to help, too. Being closer. He stops his incessant fidgeting, some of the tension drains from his shoulders. Things are even somewhat… nice. For a while.

But eventually, Alfie has to get out of the bath. Can’t stay here until he dissolves. Even if that might be preferable. He puts both hands on the edge and braces himself.

“Right, I’m getting out. If you don’t want an eyeful you’ll have to close them. Your eyes, that is,” he tells Tommy. “Yeah? I mean you’re of course free to leave the room but I’m assuming you don’t want that?”

Tommy nods and obediently squeezes his eyes shut. Puts his hands in front of them too, a gesture which is far more adorable than it should be.

Alfie takes yet another moment to gather himself. This might be a new record as for strange and mildly humiliating situations he’s put himself in. Never been that bothered about modesty before, it’s just that it’s… Tommy. He first heaves himself upright and then carefully steps out of the bath, holding onto the sink for support just to be on the safe side. Thankfully all of his body, even the parts that don’t always function that well in situations like these, decides to cooperate and there are no falling incidents. He grabs a towel and dries himself off before wrapping it around his waist. Putting on the sweat drenched clothes doesn’t seem very tempting, so he just leaves those where they lie.

“Right, all clear. Somewhat. Think we can end this little midnight escapade and go back to bed.”

Tommy opens his eyes and stares up at him. Blinks slowly and looks utterly exhausted.

“Go on,” Alfie says and nods towards the door. When Tommy still doesn’t move, he grabs his arm with one hand, the other firmly holding onto the towel, and pulls him to his feet.

Suddenly Tommy is very close. Alfie finds himself holding onto him. Some learned instinct, perhaps, knowing Tommy is so often unsteady on his feet, prone to fainting even now when his food intake has increased ever so slightly.

Tommy’s eyes are trained on his chest.

Alfie can feel his pulse pattering under his fingers, hidden away under the soft skin on his thin wrist. Or perhaps it’s his own?

Fucking hell.

This close, he can count every freckle on Tommy’s cheeks. There are a few of those now, the meagre hours of sunlight eventually adding up to bring them out. A smattering of pale spots over his cheeks and nose. He wonders if Tommy thinks about them. If he likes them or not. Some people are so particular about freckles, aren’t they?

He flinches when a cold hand suddenly ghosts over his chest. Tommy flinches too, stares up at him with wide eyes, but doesn’t have the sense to take the hand away.

_What the hell do you think you’re up to_? is what he should ask.

“Yeah, ‘s from the war, innit? Shrapnel,” he says instead. Tommy is watching the scarring on the left side of his chest. Nods. Trails his finger along one of the scars.

“Your hands always this cold?” Alfie asks and catches the hand before Tommy can move it away. Holds it against his chest, over his heart.

“You’re warm,” Tommy whispers. Inches a bit closer. Eyes still on his chest, trailing lower in a way that should make him feel uncomfortable or at the very least… scrutinized but doesn’t. Instead it lights a stack of hot coals in the pit of his stomach. Tommy’s lips are parted ever so slightly, he’s so close Alfie can feel his breath on his skin. “You’re always warm.”

“Yeah, blood runs that way,” he says. Rubs his thumb over his bony knuckles. Along the fingers, each and every one of them. “Could just be you that’s very cold.”

Tommy inches a bit closer yet, gravitates towards him. As if he does feel cold and wants to warm himself. So close that if Alfie just bowed his head a little, put a finger under Tommy’s chin to make him look up-

His eyes catch on the jagged scar, barely visible under the hair now, but still there.

He releases Tommy’s hand and brushes past him, setting for the door.

“Right, should probably get some more sleep, yeah?”

Tommy lingers in the bathroom, doesn’t come out until Alfie’s already pulled on a clean set of underwear and gotten himself back under the covers. He quietly climbs into bed and curls up as closely as he can without touching him.

Eventually, Alfie gives in and wraps an arm around his back.

….

Thank fuck, things are quite normal the next morning. Normal as in: they’re as strange they usually are. Tommy is already out of bed when Alfie wakes up, sitting on the windowsill and smoking. Which seems to be his new routine. Alfie’s rather grateful, even if he pretends to be mad every morning, telling Tommy about the dangers of smoking before breakfast from the comfort of his bed while Tommy finishes the cigarette. Eventually Alfie climbs out of bed and puts an ashtray in front of him, it gets put out, and they go and have breakfast. And despite what that cigarette may do to his already lacking appetite, Alfie is quite happy with this development. Because it means he gets the pleasure of watching Tommy sit in that window with the morning light catching in his hair and lashes. Which, objectively, is something no sane man would be able to resist.

With that part of the morning done, they as always embark on the ever exciting breakfast mission. Tommy is currently eating porridge with a teaspoon (which shouldn’t look as endearing as it does and is a testament to how strange their ‘normal’ is, but if it works it works, right?) Meanwhile Alfie is occupied with the misery that is today’s news. Nothing much has happened in the world. Business as usual; people killing each other, buying things they don’t need, the concept of weather and consequently weather reports and related news continuing to exist…

He’s caught off guard when he suddenly finds himself staring into a pair of familiar eyes, drained of their blue colour by the black and white photo, but just as recognizable. They look up at him from under a bold headline and his heart seems to drop into the pit of his stomach as he reads it, and sinks if possible even further as he scans the text below.

_After months of speculations, Thomas Shelby has been confirmed dead. There have been rumours that Shelby’s long absence from politics and the public eye is indeed not due to a holiday, as has been previously proclaimed by the family, but a health related issue. Now the family come forth to reveal that Shelby has passed after a prolonged illness, the nature of which they chose not to divulge at this time. _

_“We hope the public will respect our wish for privacy in these difficult times,” Michael Gray says._

He makes quick work of the lengthy piece. Like trying to set a disjointed shoulder or remove a bullet -quick and painful is better than dragging it out. It’s not a pleasant read. Fuck’s sake one might think a paper would have some kind of decency when speaking of a dead man. Or at the very least hoped the fuckers Tommy’s family would’ve paid someone off to spin the narrative and tone down the fucking triumphant tone of the piece. The reporter seems more pleased to have been right than anything and spares no details in the speculations and analysis of Tommy’s behaviour before his disappearance. Delving into all the controversies and the divide his decision to associate with Oswald Mosley has caused. Even go as far as to dig into the unsavoury beginnings of Shelby Company limited. Which, as Michael fucking Gray proclaims in the interview, were ‘the old days’. Things are done differently now, and with him at the helm… Alfie thinks his molars might crack as he reads his statement. And despite the nauseating smugness Michael’s every word exudes, the by far worst part is where the article expands on the hushed rumours of Tommy’s increasingly unstable psyche. Does the fucking paper have no standards anymore?

Alfie skips a few lines. Ends up where Michael is speaking about Tommy’s death instead.

_“It was of course terrible, watching him suffer the way he did, but he died peacefully in his home, and perhaps sometimes, that’s more merciful_.”

Michael is the only one in the family who’s bothered to answer the reporter’s calls. Alfie’s not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.

The whole thing leaves him with his jaw clenched and his pulse throbbing dully in his temple.

Fucking tasteless, is what it is.

Tommy’s eyes look sad even in the picture. He wonders if there is a single picture where they don’t.

Suddenly aware of his company by the table, he flips to the next page. Tommy seems oblivious. Which is lucky -it feels like it’s visible on his face, the distaste. But beneath the immediate surge of anger, there’s a tiny flicker of relief. This means they won’t come looking. This means Tommy is safe here, with him. No one is coming to take him away. And as Alfie watches him sit there with the morning light playing over his sharp cheekbones and the soft curve of his nose, fully focused on braving the portion of porridge, he’s overwhelmed by such a wave of tenderness that he’s certain he’ll use is bare fucking hands to end anyone who dared try.

He closes the paper and puts his hands together, making Tommy jump slightly in his seat.

  
“Right! Weather’s beautiful, how about that walk? You eaten all of your food? Yeah, there’s a good lad. Let’s get some sun on that face…”

And as he gently ushers Tommy out of the kitchen, he forgets about the paper.

…

Later that day he’s alone in the kitchen, graciously making tea for Tommy as Esther is occupied with the wash for the week. He cuts up Tommy’s regularly scheduled afternoon meal (which has now increased to a whole apple and a canned pear cut into the normal tiny pieces and mixed together in a bowl. A slight but important improvement). Puts that, along with the pot and two cups, on a tray and balances it back to the living room.

He finds Tommy in his usual chair. Holding today’s paper in his hands, staring down at it with wide eyes, white in the face.

_‘Why don’t you find the crossword, hm? I’ll be back in a second’_. That’s what he fucking told him, right before going to the kitchen. Which his brain decides to remind him of now, far too late. Had been an attempt to practice this whole ‘being alone’ thing, rather than following Alfie in his heels. For his own good. The realisation flushes through him like an icy wave.

“Tommy? What do you got there?” His question goes entirely unnoticed and he shoves the tray onto a nearby table, sending a paperweight crashing to the floor with a heavy thud. Walks up to him in two long strides and kneels in front of the chair, doesn’t even feel his knees complaining at the sudden motion.

Tommy’s eyes are flickering over the page covering his supposed passing, breaths coming in harsh puffs as he chews his bottom lip. Every single spiteful word in the article rushes all at once through Alfie’s head

“Tommy, let’s put this away, alright?” He grabs the paper and it slips out of Tommy’s hands despite his white knuckled grasp, as if his hands have lost all strength. “Let’s put this away and forget about it. They don’t know shit, you hear me?”

With the paper gone from his hands, Tommy grasps at his head instead. Fingers clenching tightly into his hair as he looks straight past Alfie, to those unknown corners of the room. Places he couldn’t see even if he tried.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. A hoarse, broken sound. “I’m sorry.”

Alfie clutches at his wrists, tries in vain to catch his gaze as he begins to quiver. “Tommy, hey, look at me. You’re alright. Just you and me here, eh?”

“I was just trying to- to-” Tommy gasps. Looks so utterly fucking distraught. “Didn’t mean for it to turn out this way.” Then he can’t get any more words out, they all turn into this awful, choking sounds as his breath catches in his throat. Lips turning pale and cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

“Fuck, Tommy, you’re going to fucking pass out unless you start breathing.” Alfie inches his hands in under Tommy’s, forcing them away from his head, covering the scar and holding his head still. Tommy grasps his wrists in response, clings to them as if they’re the sole thing keeping him from drowning. Continues to gasp frantically for air that doesn’t reach his lungs, choking out barely audible words in between. _I’m sorry,_ he keeps saying, eyes distant.

Alfie holds him a bit too tightly. Maybe the fragile skull will shatter underneath his hands, all the cracks finally giving in…

“Shh, shh, Tommy, just let it pass,” he whispers “Remember what we talked about, hm? Right now all you have to do is breathe, and it’ll be okay.”

He fights the impulse to tear him out of the panic, wants to shake him viciously, wring a hand into his hair and fucking force him to come back. Instead he just sits there. Let’s Tommy hold onto his wrists. The helplessness is fucking maddening.

Finally, Tommy deflates. Sags in his grip, fingers growing weak around his wrists. Alfie allows him to fall forward, rest his forehead on his shoulder. He cards his fingers through his hair and listens to the steady slowing of his breath. Both of his legs are asleep and there’s a distinct twinge somewhere around his left knee, he really should get off the floor. But moving even an inch is out of the question.

“Oh dear, did something happen?” Esther’s voice comes from the doorway, barely above a whisper as she comes into the room.

Alfie simply nods towards the paper where it lays crumpled a few feet away.

Esther sets down her basket of linens and her eyes go dark when she scans the page, mouth drawing into a tight line. She folds the paper up tightly and puts it into the pocket of her apron.

“I’ll throw that out, if you don’t mind, Sir?”

Alfie just nods before turning his attention back to Tommy. 

“Right, Tommy, how about you lay down for a while? Relax a little?” he asks and manages to stand up, despite the complaints from all his joints. Tommy won’t let go of his wrists. Grasps onto them tighter now when Alfie’s shoulder is gone, head bowed. Alfie makes a half hearted attempt at making him lean back in the armchair but looks around the room for other options when Tommy whines quietly in protest. “Okay, what about the sofa, then? Hm? We can both fit on that.”

He motions Esther over with a jerk of his head, just to be on the safe side, and together they pull Tommy to his feet. It’s wobbly and precarious but he stays upright, albeit by plastering himself against Alfie’s chest and with Esther’s arm around his back. Alfie walks him over to the sofa and slumps down, Tommy nestled closely against his side. 

  
Esther brings the blanket over to them to tuck him in and Tommy finally releases Alfie’s wrists, burying his fingers in that instead.

“There we go,” Alfie mutters and brushes the hair out of his eyes. “All better. Now we just sit here for a little while, yeah? Nice and easy. Can even close your eyes if you fancy it”

Moments later, Tommy has fallen into an exhausted sleep.

And Alfie is left alone with his thoughts.

Every time one of these things happens he’s reminded of how much he’s in over his fucking head.

There’ll be those brief moments of calm, something akin to normalcy. Even if it’s a new normal, one very far from the common definition of the word. Even if Tommy is… different now. Broken beyond repair perhaps, eyes catching on invisible spectres in the corners and all those cleverly spun words stolen from his lips. But Alfie might be slowly learning to fucking handle it, is the thing. That new normal. Because of those short moments where Tommy will emerge from the fog. Stubbornly smoke too many cigarettes. Ask when they can go outside with something almost resembling eagerness tinting his voice. Point at something in the crossword and have the answer all figured out. Quietly eat one of his small meals without breaking out in cold sweat. Good days will consist of many of those moments, lighting a reluctant but persistent little flicker of _something_ in Alfie’s chest.

And then something like this happens. Or like the incident the other night, in the living room. When he disappears completely.

And it still happens far too fucking often.

He’s not sure what caused the panic this time. Guilt welling up perhaps, over things he’s done. Things he hasn’t done. Or the finality of it all; seeing all the ties to his previous life so ruthlessly severed. By his own fucking family, too.

A sudden swell of rage rises in his chest. Take and take, don’t they, and once he’s got nothing left to give this is what they fucking do? Ungrateful vultures, the lot of them, picking at the last scraps of meat until there’s nothing but bones left-

He needs to move. Do something with his hands.

Tommy is so out of it he doesn’t even stir when Alfie lays him down on the sofa to amble out in the hallway and stretch his legs.

He wants to shoot something. Wants to put a gun to each and every member of that ungrateful fucking family’s head and watch the skull burst into a million fractured pieces. In lieu of any members of the Shelby clan showing up at his doorstep to allow for this, a seagull would have to do for now.

But he just continues pacing up and down the corridor.

When he’s on his fourth lap, Esther comes towards him with another basket of freshly washed clothing. She peers into the living room as she passes.

“Still asleep?” she whispers and he they meet halfway down the corridor, still in view of the living room. To be on the safe side.

“Yeah, yeah they always drain him completely, these things,” he says quietly, scratching his chin as he watches Tommy’s sleeping form on the sofa. “Wrings his poor brain out like a dishrag.”

Esther has a sharp wrinkle between her eyebrows as she sets her laundry basket down. Alfie waits for the thought she’s clearly forming while she pulls the paper from her apron and unfolds it.

“Is this something we need to be worried about?” she thumbs the page where Tommy’s sad eyes are looking up at them. Glances down as the wrinkle is joined by a few more, just as sharp, just as concerned. “These… people.”

The way she says it tugs a mirthless laugh from his throat. 

“His family?”

Esther huffs as she eyes the paper again.

“It’s not right,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Why would the lie? And then let the paper write something like this.”

Alfie sighs as if the weight on his chest could be pushed off through sheer force. “No fucking idea. An attempt to keep up the neat façade I suppose. A hell of a lot easier to say someone’s died after an illness, I reckon. Rather than admitting they’ve gone fucking mad in the head and run off somewhere. And even after months, you still have no idea to where. They’re not very fond of that, the Shelbys. Losing control.”

“But wouldn’t they’ve made them leave out these bits then?” Esther taps the paper, even if the text is illegible at this distance. “There are clearly assumptions being made about his- well, his mental state.”

“Because they’re fucking morons, I assume. Don’t know if they’ve bothered demanding to approve the article before it went to print. Or if they did and just didn’t give a damn.”

“Wish he hadn’t had to see this. Poor thing.”

“Don’t let him know you read it. I don’t think he could fucking survive it if you- if you held those things against him. Not now.”

“There seems to be plenty of people who do that already,” Esther says firmly. “I hardly think I need to add to that list.” She turns towards the living room and her eyes grow soft as they land on Tommy. “I just want him to feel safe. That there’s… room for him here.”

Alfie’s throat grows uncomfortably tight at her words, much to his annoyance.

He grunts something barely intelligible at Esther involving air and keeping an eye on Tommy for a second, and goes outside to find a seagull to shoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (please excuse the inaccurate news paper language -I gave up researching there...)
> 
> Thank you for reading! And I know, big sudden news... but we'll check back in with the Shelbys to get the full picture soon. Or at least... parts of the picture. 
> 
> please leave a comment if you'd like, they always make my day


	20. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Predictably, Tommy doesn't deal well with the latest news from Birmingham. But Alfie might slowly be learning how to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's once again been EAONS but now I*m here -it's been a crazy few weeks with school starting again, busy and strange being a teacher these days but I won't bore you with that. Please just enjoy! And thank you so much to everyone who's left a comment, I'll be getting to answering soon but I just had to get this chapter out now.

The night in Margate is blue. Tommy thinks of that each night. In the bedroom back at Arrow house darkness was just black, lined with heavy curtains and solid walls closing in around him. Here, it’s blue. As if the sea has crept up from the shore and engulfed everything. A cold, deep, deep blue. Out here especially, far away from the comfort of the fireplace.

The wind catches in his thin shirt and he curls up tighter where he sits on the steps leading up to the house from the beach. The cold stone under him chills his bare feet. He doesn’t really feel it, but he must be cold because he sees his hands tremble as they clutch the newspaper. The black lettering on the page is blurring before his eyes. It’s too dark to read it out here. Was already difficult without his glasses. But it doesn’t matter. The voices know the words by now. Because he couldn’t stop reading it, like scratching a scabbing wound, refusing to let it heal. Over and over until the voices remembered. They keep repeating them, making them seep into his nightmares, into every crevice of his mind where they sink in, sharp like shards of broken glass that make it hard to form coherent thoughts.

He tries to reason with them, the voices, but it’s not much use. No use in arguing when he knows they’re telling the truth. When he knows they’re right. They’re not searching. They don’t want him back. They’ve _moved on_. They’re happier without him. He can hear them behind closed doors, whispering amongst themselves. They’re relieved. One less thing to worry about-

“You couldn’t have gone back to them anyway, Tom,” John says cheerily where he sits on the railing above him, a dark outline against the night sky, cigarette in hand and with the blood soaked shirt clinging to his chest. The wind catches in his hair and he flashes his teeth in that carefree grin he somehow still had after the war. “Right? They were sending you to the loony bin. Don’t get why you’re so upset about it.”

Tommy clenches the paper harder between his fingers. Looks down at the words, hears them echo in his head, listing all his failures and missteps, the bodies he’s stepped over to get where he is-

Get to this.

Some cold, blustery stone steps in Margate. Outside a house that isn’t his own.

Alone.

“What was it all for, Tommy?”

He shakes his head at Grace’s softly spoken question. Doesn’t know. Doesn’t fucking know.

It seemed so important at the time.

Always chasing, never slowing down, climbing higher and higher, proving himself over and over until there was no one left to prove wrong. Fill that empty hole in his chest with something, anything before it swallowed him and everyone around him.

“In the end, none of it mattered, did it?”

“I did it for them,” he says, hearing his voice crack brokenly. “For you.” 

“That’s a lie and you know it. But that’s all right. It doesn’t matter now. Not if you come with me.” And Grace reaches for him, inviting promising.

“Who would miss you? You saw, you heard them-“

“It would be better for everyone if you disappeared.”

He hushes the voices, wraps his arms around himself to keep his hands away from his head, knows he’s not allowed to scratch, it won’t help, there’s no bullet there to dig out. Nothing there but he wants to dig his nails into his skin so badly, tear, scratch wants it to _hurt… _

“It’s better that he’s gone,” Lizzie tells someone whose features he can’t make out. “The kids are happier.” She turns and looks at him with those sharp eyes. Doesn’t matter if he closes his eyes, covers his ears. “Ruby is different when you’re not around.”

Yes, it’s better this way, he knows. He doesn’t have a place in their world anymore. Maybe not in any world. The feeling from the field overwhelms him again, the bone deep hopelessness, nowhere to turn, no firm ground to stand on just this pitch black abyss, tethering on the edge of it, ankle deep in wet, cold mud…

“Hey there, Tommy.”

Esther’s voice is full of warmth, instantly recognisable among all the others. Grips onto the fragile threads anchoring him to reality and pulls- He opens his eyes to find her in the doorway, a knitted cardigan wrapped tightly around her against the chill and with a blanket in her arms. Not his blanket, it lies forgotten in the bedroom.

When did he get out of bed?

She approaches slowly but without hesitation and sits down next to him on the steps, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. Squeezes them gently before rubbing her hands along his upper arms.

“Oh, you poor thing, you’re freezing. Did you have trouble sleeping?”

He manages to nod in response, isn’t sure if he’s slept, if the voices chasing him out of bed were a dream or not. Esther pulls the blanket tighter around him. Keeps the arm over his shoulders, holding him close.

“Look at all those stars,” she says and looks skyward. “Do you know any of the constellations?”

Mum used to tell them stories about the stars. Now he can’t seem to remember a single one. He shakes his head.

“Mister Solomons knows them all, he claims. I’m sure he could tell you plenty of stories. I only know a handful.” Esther squints up at the sky, searching and then points to a small cluster. “That’s Orion, the one over there with the three bright stars in a row. Orion’s belt. Supposedly it’s a hunter with his bow.”

He looks up at the tiny, distant lights, following along as Esther points. Tries to find the formations she tells him about. Shut everything else out.

Esther’s eyes eventually turn from the sky to the paper he’s still clutching.

“I wondered where that had gone. I noticed it’d disappeared from the bin.”

She reaches out for the paper and he holds it closer, can’t let her see. Can’t let her know. She’ll hate him, just like them. He can’t bear that -even if he deserves it he can’t bear Esther hating him. Esther puts a hand gently over his where he clutches it against his chest, but doesn’t try to take it away.

“Mister Solomons asked me to throw that out,” she says softly. “I think that would be for the best.”

The paper crinkles in his convulsive grip. Esther’s thumb rubs gently over the back of his hand, but he can’t let her read it, can’t let her see, can’t-

Maybe she already has? No, that doesn’t make sense, she wouldn’t want him here, then. But Esther is kind. Perhaps she lets him stay out of pity. His gaze drifts, can’t bring himself to look at her face and see the truth there. 

Grace is standing on the beach down by the water, a white speck in the midst of all the black, by the edge where the waves are crashing in. She’s looking back at him, reaching, promising that he’ll be safe with her, that she already knows about the gaping hole that swallows anything that comes to close. Her hair is oddly still where it frames her face. As if the wind splits around her. Sweeps up towards the steps, blows straight through him and making him tremble. Esther wraps her arm around his shoulders again. He can see her do it but the arm feels like nothing, all his nerve endings have been cut and he can’t feel anything except the cold, cold mud, cold water around his feet.

“It’s awfully cold out here. How about we go inside?”

He folds inwards on himself at Esther’s question, can’t stop shaking.

“Tommy?”

Can’t move his legs. Esther squeezes his shoulders, cups his face, worried eyes only inches away. Her mouth is moving again, but the words are patchy. She repeats them, slowly.

“I’m going to get Mister Solomons. Alright? I’ll be right back.” She nods, urging him to do the same and he does, nodding frantically. Alfie-

The warmth disappears from his side and leaves him trembling harder in the wind. The waves crash against the frozen shore in the distance.

Grace’s voice.

Then, as if no time has passed at all, familiar, heavy footsteps approach. The relief washes over him. Alfie’s here now, he’ll make everything okay.

“Nothing will ever be-“

The voices don’t matter. Alfie is here.

“Out looking at the stars I hear, aye Tommy?” Alfie’s deep voice comes from above. A familiar scent envelops him as he wraps another blanket around him. “Could’ve chosen a warmer night for it, though. Fuckin’ freezing out here.”

He sits down next to him, warm and solid by Tommy’s side. Tommy unfurls a little, forcing his numb limbs to cooperate as he shuffles closer to his larger frame.

“Figured you’d do some reading I see,” Alfie says. “Think there’s been enough of that.” He tugs the paper out of his hands. His eyes flicker over the page, eyebrows twitching. He tears it out. Rips it to pieces before Tommy can make his numb hands reach out to take it back. When Alfie tosses the pieces over the railing, the wind carries them off like wilted leaves. He watches them disappear.

“There we go. No need to fret about that anymore, eh?”

One of the pieces have caught on a branch in a nearby tree. Soon, that disappears too.

But the voices remember.

“And who the hell cares what a paper is writing? Always full of shit, innit? And you obviously won’t go back or have any contact with those ungrateful bastards. I don’t know why you’re so fucking upset.”

Because there’s no one now. No ties left to the real world, the one where he mattered in some way, where he had a place, a purpose.

Nowhere to go. 

He should’ve fucking realised it earlier. Stupid so fucking stupid. No one came, no one-

Picked up the phone

Came through the closed door, or out onto the field

until it was far too late.

“You pushed them all away, what did you expect?”

“Oi, Tommy, you listening to me?”

Did they have a funeral? Put fire to an empty caravan, stood around it, silent and clad in black.

“They wouldn’t bother with a funeral. Why have a funeral for someone no-one mourns?”

No one-

“Tommy, look at me,” Alfie says and grabs his jaw. Holds it tightly as he forces his head up and towards him. “He’s a fucking piece of shit, that cousin of yours. And that article is bollocks.”

“It’s true,” he whispers. So quiet Alfie shouldn’t be able to hear him. 

Alfie scoffs. “True? Yeah, yeah sure. But what does it fucking matter? Haven’t you given your family big houses and maids and more money than they could’ve ever dreamt of? The fucking opinions of some reporter, someone who’s never had to look a man in the eye and put a bullet between said eyes to put food on the table for his family, are of no fucking importance.”

The fingers around his jaw are so tight they hurt. He doesn’t like it when Alfie touches him that way. But he’s forgotten how to- how to say things like that out loud.

“You and me, we’re exempt from the rules of mere mortals,” Alfie says, words as firm as his hand. “So that we can do what needs to be fuckin’ done, eh? And didn’t your family take the fucking money and the fucking houses and the maids?”

“But what does it matter now when you can’t give them anything? Look at you.”

His thoughts are always fractured, illogical, can’t even tell apart what’s in his head and outside of it. He’s got nothing to offer anymore.

Just this empty, ugly shell.

An empty grave where no one goes.

“No, Tommy, eyes on me,” Alfie squeezes harder and he finally lets out a choked sound in protest. His eyes meet Tommy’s, unwavering. “Fuck them. They can sit on their high horses all they want. Talk about the old fucking days. As if that wasn’t what got them where they are. This guilt ridden self torture doesn’t suit you. It‘s fucking _below _you is what it is. You did what you did. Now you have to live with it.”

“I can’t,” he whispers. A trembling, quiet sort of sound that catches in the wind.

“Well, you’ll have to fucking figure it out.”

Grace is standing by the foot of the steps, arms open invitingly. “You’ll be safe with me, Tommy. This is where you belong.”

The sapphire hangs around her neck, crimson runnels seeping from its centre, staining her clothing. She’s already bloody so it doesn’t matter that his hands are too.

He closes his eyes. He can’t do what Alfie asks of him. For short moments he can fool himself, but all he’s doing is postponing the inevitable, clinging to a piece of scrap wood in a stormy sea waiting for rescue that isn’t coming…

A searing pain spreads through his chest, a dull ache growing in strength until it leaves him breathless, forcing guttural whines between clenched teeth as it searches for a way out, too much to fit in his chest anymore. Alfie’s hand slides to the back of his head and guides him forward until his nose is buried in soft cotton that smells like Alfie. He pulls the scent into his nose.

Alfie is talking again, words floating together and Tommy isn’t sure they’re making sense at all. But he breathes the safe scent in.

Alfie keeps him safe.

He buries his shaking hands in the fabric of his shirt and bunches it up between his fingers. A warm, heavy weight settles around his shoulders as Alife wraps an arm around him

Grace keeps telling him to come. But the arms keep him here.

“Shh, ‘s alright, you’ll be alright,” Alfie hushes him. “I’ve got you. You’ll be alright.”

Alfie gets him back to the bedroom. Leads him with steady hands (n_ot fucking carrying you, remember_?) and tucks him in between warm blankets and soft pillows, pulls him against his chest. Then he is talking about something, muttering softly under his breath. Tommy can hear the rumble in his chest beneath his ear, but can’t piece the words together. Even among all the other voices, his is the only one he clings to.

…

He wakes up late the next day to the wind whistling outside the window, head pounding and with lead seeping through his veins. Alfie’s side of the bed is empty. He rests his palm on the cold sheets, eyes catching on the packet of cigarettes on the nightstand. But he finds he can’t muster up enough strength to even reach for them. The mud lies over him like a heavy blanket, pressing him down into the mattress, making it difficult to breathe.

He doesn’t dare looking towards the chair in the corner, can’t bear seeing Grace there. Too weak to resist the temptation of falling into the offered embrace, follow her wherever she asks him to go.

“Are you not tired, Tom? Don’t you want to rest?”

And he wants to. He so desperately wants to. Closes his eyes. Wants to fall back into the darkness. Breathes. Listens to the mud and the dirt shift around him.

The door creaks.

He recognises Esther’s steps, steady and lighter than Alfie’s. The mattress dips as she sits down and he forces his eyes open.

“Good morning, love.” She smooths his hair back and he clings to the touch. It grounds him a little. “Mister Solomons just went out for a short walk. He figured we should let you sleep.”

She waits for some kind of a response but even making a hum seems to be too much effort today.

“I’ve lit the fireplace in the living room. You can have breakfast in there if you’d like? It’s nice and warm.”

It should sound tempting, escaping the lonely bedroom, and he knows he has to leave the bed, follow the routine, but it’s too difficult. All he can manage is pulling his knees up to his chest.

“Today’s not a good day, hm?” Esther says, without expecting a reply this time. “That’s alright. I can bring your breakfast in for you.”

She does. Then she builds a pile out of the pillows and helps him sit up when his feeble attempt at doing so himself fails. While he tries to eat she sits with him on the edge of the bed, talking softly and mending a hole in a sock with nimble fingers. Once he’s managed a few spoonfulls of the porridge and he curls up under the blankets again, she takes the bowl away with a soft sigh. Runs her fingers through his hair and tells him she’ll be back soon.

He sees the exhaustion weighing on her as she leaves the room. Just as it did on Lizzie. She tried to hide it at first, but it quickly began seeping through the cracks whenever she’d look at him.

“Tommy, please you have to try,” she pleads, voice cracking as she grasps at his face, his shoulders, tugging and shaking as if she could physically pull him out of the mud and the fog. “Why won’t you talk? Why won’t you even fucking look at me?”

Shakes him, fingers holding onto his shoulders with bruising strength. Demanding things of him he can’t give.

“Tommy, fucking look at me!”

The hands are becoming frantic in their desperation, violent, and he’s longed so much for someone to touch him, but not like this

Someone starts whining, terrified, gut-wrenching noises like a wounded animal.

“What am I supposed to do?” Lizzie’s voice raises to a cry to overpower the awful sound and he clutches at his head, digs his nails into his skin until it breaks. If he could only find the bullet, his head would start working again- He could fix everything. Fingers around his wrists, tugging at them and he’s too weak to resist them.

“Stop that, God damnit Tommy, stop-“

Hurried steps run across the hardwood floor.

“Mrs. Shelby, please, you’re scaring him. Let me take over for a little while. You need some time to breathe. Go on.”

He scrambles away when he’s finally released, fighting against too heavy limbs and the blankets tangling around his legs. The figure above him is dark, as if a shadow has broken free from the corner- should be familiar but he can’t place the features. She reaches for him.

“Shh, shh, Mrs. Shelby is worried, that’s all. Do try to calm down-“

Firm hands try to push him back onto the mattress and it gives way under him. The dirt closes in around him. He shuts his eyes, lets himself be swallowed by the darkness and smell of wet mud.

“Morning sleeping beauty. Still in bed I see? And I hear you’re being difficult again, with the whole food issue.”

Dragged back to reality by the sound of Alfie’s voice, Tommy opens his eyes and glances up at him over the edge of the blanket. A knot forms in his belly when he waits for his reaction. Alfie hates it when he lies in bed like this.

Alfie crosses his arms over his chest and studies him.

“This still about that fucking article, eh? Is that what’s got you so upset?”

He shakes his head. A pathetic attempt at a lie.

“Really? Because it sure fucking seems like it. But you know the rules, can’t lie around and sulk all day. Go on. On your feet.”

Alfie grabs his shoulder and pulls, but it’s gentle. Not like that time he dragged him out of bed. But that would be the only way of getting him out of it today. He closes his eyes again and waits. All Alfie does is sigh deeply.

Then the mattress dips and it prompts him to squeeze his eyes open.

Alfie has laid down next to him, fingers interlaced on his stomach and face set in a thoughtful frown.

“No need to look so fucking confused,” he grunts. “Can’t a man lie down in his own bloody bed without being scrutinized?”

He turns his gaze towards the ceiling with another grunt. Tommy keeps his eyes on his hands.

Alfie has nice hands. Strong and firm but with something of a delicateness to them. Perhaps it’s the rings? Or the way he always moves them when he speaks, fingers dancing. Tommy pulls the sleeves down over his own.

“Saw a deer, I did,” Alfie says, unprompted as always. “On my walk. Pretty things, aren’t they? Yeah. Well, at least until they make those noises… Whoever decided that was the sound a dear ought to make sure got a brilliant sense of humour.” He scratches his chin and the rings glint in the light. “Might get some more snow tonight, it‘s fucking freezing out. Fuck knows I prefer this distinct lack of it, but you like it, don’t you? The snow. So I suppose it’s fine.”

Alfie glances at him, furrowing his brow. Sighs. Then he reaches out, cradles Tommy’s head and holds it gently, as if it were something precious. Instead of broken and useless. Runs a thumb right below the hollow of his eye, the touch so soft Tommy thinks he might be dreaming. And he looks at him. It makes him want to curl up closer, wants Alfie to surround him completely. Consume him until there’s nothing left of his hollow shell.

“Fucking hell. Wish I could just… crack your head open and pluck that useless article out of there. Though I suppose if I started rooting around in there I’d do more damage than anything else…”

The hand slides down over the back of his neck, his shoulders, eventually looping around his waist and tugging him closer, until he’s nestled against his chest. His breath catches at the sudden embrace. Alfie usually limits touch like this to the darkest parts of the night, when he seems to be out of other options. He barely dares to breathe, doesn’t want to do something to upset Alfie, make him pull away.

“Relax, will you? You like this,” Alfie says, as if to remind him. Yes, Tommy does like this.

He’s safe here.

They lie in silence. For a long, long time. The weight of the mud seems to melt away little by little, easing his breaths. Alfie’s heart beats steadily under his ear and the sound lulls him into blissful calm.

“Tomorrow’s a new day,” Alfie mutters. “That’s the thing about days. They just keep comin’, don’t they? Suppose it’s alright to spend one or two in bed.”

He pulls him even closer. Rests his chin on the top of his head. As if to tell him he’s not going anywhere.

“Got a few neighbours a mile or two away. Not too far. And they have some pretty horses they let out in the pasture come spring. I’ll take you there when you can stay on your feet for that long. That’s something to look forward to, innit? Springtime when it gets all warm and pleasant. You haven’t truly lived until you’ve sat in a comfortable chair by the water when the sun finally burns away all the damp fog, doing absolutely nothing useful. When the breeze is warm and the skies are as blue as your eyes.” 

Mustering up enough courage to return the embrace, Tommy wraps an arm around Alfie’s chest, clutching at the back of his shirt. He can imagine Alfie sitting there in the sun, eyes closed and with the light catching in his beard. Content. Can for the first time even imagine himself there, even if the picture is faded at the edges and hard to hold onto.

When Alfie speaks again, his voice is far away: “I recall saying something very wise to you the other night. About fucking living with it. The fact that you’ve done all that awful shit. Easy there, you’re not going anywhere-“ Alfie holds onto him when the unease makes him squirm. “Even if you say that you can’t, you don’t really have any other options. See, Esther is very fond of you, and it’s of utmost importance to me that she stays happy, as that makes my own existence a fair bit easier. Gotten used to having someone to dote on properly, she has. And admittedly, I- Well, the thing is that I’ve always enjoyed my own company. Lived alone by choice and all that. But I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re not_ too_ much of a bother.”

Alfie pauses for a long time as if he’s said something very important, Tommy tries to detangle all the words without much success.

“Granted you’re a fucking handful. Bit like having a very demanding pet, innit? But even if you have a spoiled cat who only deigns to sit on your lap every once in a blue moon, well you do fucking appreciate those moments, yeah? When the cat wants to… to sit there. You know? The spoiled little fucker.” Alfie’s hand strokes up along his spine, up the back of his neck until it eventually comes to rest on his head. He hums to himself. “Strange fucking creatures, really. Relying solely on you for survival but still acting all high and mighty. Still, suppose you sort of get used to having them around and then all of a sudden it’s hard to imagine them… not being there. You get my point?”

Tommy manages a tiny sound, even though he doesn’t fully understand. Alfie seems pleased.

“You’d be surprised what you can survive,” he says quietly. “Say having half your face shot away by some cunt and being left for dead on a deserted beach with only the seagulls and your bloody dog there to help you. Even that. So, I’d say your chances are quite good.”

Alfie’s fingers are running through his hair. Soft and warm and firm all at once. He pulls in the safe scent of his shirt into his nose. The heat radiating from his body seeps into Tommy’s own. Slowing his heartbeat. Helping him breathe.

And a thought crosses his mind. It’s a foolish one, of course. Utterly impossible. Wrong. But for a fleeting moment he thinks it with complete clarity: If there’s still a place for him in this world, he wants it to be here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and please leave any thoughts below <3 It always makes my day to read them and honestly there's no way this story would've gotten to this point without them.


	21. Interlude two- fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzie meets Arthur during her morning walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey it's been a while again and here I am with a disappointingly short chapter, please forgive me. BUT the good news are the next much longer chapter is already in the 'finished rough draft' -stage, so I promise it won't be a month wait for that, more like a week. I hope you'll like this short one, and thank you so much to everyone sticking with me <3

As soon as she sets foot on the grassy field, Lizzie spots the lanky figure sat by the riverbank, dark and blurred at the edges by the fog clouding the outer perimeters of Arrow House’s grounds. It’s not a surprising sight, and she lets a sigh escape her as she approaches. Cyril on the other hand barks happily and she lets him off his lead, allowing the dog to galop over the wet grass, tail wagging.

Lizzie quietly walks up to them, lighting a cigarette. She pulls her coat tighter around herself against the raw damp in the air. The wet grass chills her feet through the thin leather in the fashionable boots. At least she was wise enough not to wear heals.

Cyril skids to a halt by Arthur’s side, tail still wagging and he reaches out to scratch him behind the ears, without turning his eyes away from the grey river. The edges are lined with a thin layer of ice, but the water is still swirling slowly in the middle, pumping through the countryside like a cold vein. Lizzie studies his sorry form.

His trousers are wet, far up over the knees, boots muddy, and the coat seems to swallow him whole. Stubble is covering his cheeks and his eyes are red and watery. A cloud of putrid whiskey smell hangs around him. She pulls a drag of smoke deep into her lungs and waits for him to acknowledge her presence.

“Interesting story in the paper today, eh, Lizzie?” he says, finally, without looking up. “Does it feel different now, when you’re officially the owner of… all of this?” He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand and his words drip with a tired kind of bitterness. “Apparently it’s enough that your spouse signs a few papers and then you’re officially fucking dead. Assume that’s why you did it, to get-“ 

“Don’t assume, Arthur. That will do you no good,” Lizzie replies and sits down in the grass next to him, disregarding her expensive coat. She has the money to buy a new one every day for the rest of her life, should she fancy it. What does it matter?

They sit in near silence, save for the quiet hum of the river. It seems so useless these days, trying to fill silences with polite small talk.

“Michael came to me with the papers,” Lizzie says once she’s inhaled a few more lungfuls of smoke and damp air. “Gave a very long speech and made it perfectly clear what I stood to lose if I chose to be uncooperative. I have two kids. I won’t let him destroy what’s left of my family.”

Arthur glances at her.

“You could’ve come to me. Or Ada-“

“And you would’ve done what?” she asks and Arthur’s eyes sink back into the depths of the river. Cyril whines when he stops petting him to link his hands together around his knees. A tower of ash has formed on Lizzie’s cigarette and she barely remembers to tap it off before it falls down onto her coat. She takes a final drag before stubbing it out in the grass. “Of course I would’ve liked to tell him exactly where to stick those fucking papers. But where would that have gotten me? At least now I own the estate myself. And Tommy’s shares of the business. We have more leverage.”

Arthur snorts.

What good does leverage do in a war you’ve already lost?

  
“He’s not dead,” he says.

Lizzie lights yet another cigarette.

He shakes his head, all the lines in his forehead deepening as he stares at the water. As if it owes him answers. “I would’ve found him. I’ve looked… I’ve looked fucking everywhere, and I can’t find him.”

“Arthur-“

  
“Don’t use that fucking tone” he hisses. “I haven’t just lost it, like everyone seems to fucking believe. It’s- it’s the only logical explanation. He can’t just have vanished. He would’ve washed up somewhere.” Swallows, to make his tongue form the impossible words, “His body.”

“You didn’t come and visit too often,” Lizzie says, her tone calm and lacking blame. Just voicing a truth they both know. “You didn’t see. Most of the time he was so far gone he couldn’t even hear me. Didn’t know where he was. Where would he have gone?”

Arthur scoffs, “ ‘course you wouldn’t understand. You don’t care whether we fucking find him or not.“

Lizzie’s eyes glint dangerously, but a call in the distance shifts her attention from Arthur.

“Mummy!”

Ruby comes running over the field, laughing, with her tiny arms flailing and her braids bouncing around her shoulders. Charlie is following close behind and latches onto her arm when she nearly stumbles over a tuft of grass. Frances is standing in the distance and Lizzie waves at her as the kids make their way towards her, and she returns to the house when she sees them reach her safely.

“Oh Ruby, love, you need to wear your coat! It’s freezing out,” Lizzie chides gently when Ruby flings herself at her back, arms looping around her neck, but a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. The ice melts from her gaze.

  
“I tried telling her Liz, but she wouldn’t listen,” Charlie says and puts his hands on his hips, shaking his head as he looks admonishingly at his little sister. She just laughs -her brother is the funniest person in the whole world. Charlie folds his brow into a meticulously thought out frown, “You will catch a cold.” And he wags a tiny finger at her, trying his very best to be a stern older brother. The display is somewhat ruined by Cyril as the dog sits up and licks a stripe up his face. He is very pleased when both kids occupy themselves with petting him, coats and brotherly duties forgotten for now.

“Hi uncle Arthur!” Charlie says once Cyril has been properly greeted. “Why are you all muddy? Did you also come out here to play?” Arthur ducks his head, scratching the back of it.

“Nah, I-I-“ a desperate glance in Lizzie’s direction saves him.

“Charlie, why don’t you and Ruby take Cyril with you and go inside?” she says and pulls his cap down a bit further on his head. “I’m sure Francis will make you some cocoa to warm you up. I’ll bring uncle Arthur with me and you can talk more later. Maybe even show him your train track.”

Arthur clears his throat and manages, “Got a train track, do you, Charlie?”

“Yes, and it’s very nice too!” Charlie says proudly and positively beams at his uncle. “You can even drive it if you want.”

All Arthur can manage in response is an awkward grunt, but Charlie doesn’t seem bothered.

He takes his sister by the hand and together they run back towards the house, Cyril hot on their trail. The promise of cocoa has effectively made them forget about everything else.

Lizzie watches them go before getting to her feet, brushing herself off and nodding towards the house.

“Come on, at least have a cup of tea. I’d offer you whiskey, but I think you’ve had your lifetime cut of that already.”

And then she turns and begins walking back towards the house. After a moment’s consideration, Arthur follows.

They don’t say much on their way back. Simply walk side by side, Lizzie with the cigarette between her lips and Arthur with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat.

“Do they know?” he asks. Tries to clear the rasp to his voice by coughing without much success, before adding, “the kids.”

She shakes her head slowly and savors the burning smoke going down her lungs, giving her time to form an answer. “I couldn’t tell them. These past months have been so difficult, but it’s finally better. I want to give them time. And they’re so young. How would they understand?”

Arthur makes a noncommittal grunt that could mean anything.

“They think he’s- that he’s away because he’s sick and needs to rest. They knew, of course, while he was still here, that something was wrong. So they accepted it, even if it took time. They ask about him sometimes.” The questions are few and far between these days. Lizzie doesn’t mention that. “I try to make them remember the good parts. He at least deserves that much. Even if-“

The rest of the sentence is left to hang in the damp air, but Arthur’s eyes go a few shades darker. They both think of the article.

“I’ll tell them the truth, when they’re a bit older.”  
  
“And what is that? The truth”

Lizzie stops abruptly then, grabbing his arm and halting his step. Forcing him to face her and he yields as if he’s a brittle branch being tossed by the wind.

“That he’s dead, Arthur,” she says and he flinches, as always when someone tells him. “And you need to accept that. This, what you’re doing-“ She gestures towards his sorry figure, the soaked trousers, the muddy boots. “-is just some delusional way of relieving your own guilt. And I understand. I feel it too. That fucking guilt. Because on some days, by the end, I couldn’t even go into his room. I just left him there, for days on end, because I couldn’t bear seeing him so- so fucking broken. And I was furious with him. For doing that to himself, to us. And now he’s gone and we’ll just have to live with it!”

By the end, Lizzie’s voice has risen to a shout and Arthur has gone tense as a bowstring ready to snap, pulling long labored breaths in through his nose.

They stare each other down in the deafening silence afterwards. Like they did that morning. Their eyes had met out there, through the milky fog. Arthur, with Tommy’s deathly still body in his arms, eyes wild and with mud up to his knees. And Lizzie, shivering in her thin dress. Arthur held Tommy’s head cradled against his chest, uselessly trying to stop the blood. 

Now, they stand on that same spot outside the house. The winter snow and rain has long since washed away the blood that seeped from between Arthur’s fingers. It’s poured down between the wilted blades of grass.

“Mummy!” Ruby calls from the tiny opening in the window. Waves and smiles toothily. And the tension breaks. Lizzie waves at her daughter, and Arthur’s shoulders slump.

“Come in for a while,” she says when she turns back to face Arthur whose gaze has faded into grey indifference again. “Drink some tea. Spend time with Charlie. He’d like that.”

Arthur doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even shake his head. Just turns and walks away, disappearing into the fog. 

Lizzie watches his fading figure for a moment and then she goes inside. To her children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, apologies for this short and... arguably not very interesting chapter, but I've had this scene in my head forever and I knew I had to write it. As I said the next chapter is on the way! Please do share your thoughts, that's always hugely motivational ♥️ see you soon hopefully!


	22. Track of time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy continues to struggle with the news from Birmingham. And finally admits something to Alfie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! Another chapter! please enjoy ♥️

”Go on, the weather’s lovely. No snow yet, but it could happen any day now,” Esther says cheerily as she helps Tommy sit up on the bed. It’s one of those days when he needs it. Alfie has left the room, and he can hear him pacing in the hallway. Heavy, impatient steps.

“Come on, get your scrawny arse out of bed, Tommy, or I’m coming in there to fucking drag you out by the hair. Don’t think I won’t.”

Esther huffs and rolls her eyes, but chooses not to comment. He sits there on the bed with her arm still around his shoulders, held by the secure weight. She’s not very tall, Esther, but she’s strong and sturdy. Perhaps it’s out of pity, this embrace, but he can’t reject the touch. Starved, craves it.

Tommy rubs a hand over his stomach. He tried to eat breakfast but the mud was in the way-

Esther squeezes his shoulder.

“How are you feeling?”

It’s too difficult answering questions like that, Esther knows and rephrases it. “Are you feeling sick?”

“He was sick, for a long time,” Michael Gray tells us when we meet him at his new office, “We’ve of course decided to keep it private, for the sake of the family. I took over more of the day to day work-“

Michael’s voice has become clear in his mind, an as real and solid presence as any of the others these past few days. It’s his own fault for reading the article so many times. Compulsively scratching a wound and refusing to let it scab over.

Esther asked a question.

He swallows thickly and manages, “No.”

Esther keeps rubbing his arm but he barely feels it.

Rumours have spread of Shelby’s deteriorating mental health, something Michael Gray only briefly touches upon-

“Are you sure? You’re looking quite pale.” She touches his forehead gently. The lines on her furrowed brow are blurred, everything around him seems to be enveloped in fog.

Michael’s voice continues to recite the article without missing a beat, “Unfortunately, the war left him with damages not even time could repair. And it began catching up with him. Which is how one can explain some of his less… rational decisions as of late.” One of these less than rational decision might be the choice to ally himself with Oswald Mosely, which-

He shakes his head, trying to erase the words, wishes they’d blur and fade like so many of the memories. They’re lodged like sharp pieces in his head. The worst parts he’s managed to wrap in enough fog to soften the edges. But bits and pieces still slip through.

“One has to remember they started with nothing, from an unfortunate background, so it’s no small feat, what Thomas has managed to do. Even if it’s been through questionable methods. Which of course is not something I can stand behind nor endorse, but it was before my time. Things are changing, now.”

Esther gently moves his hand away from his scar and places it in his lap instead.

“Are you sure you’re not feeling unwell?” 

He shakes his head. Tries to say something reassuring, something that will make her happy, but the dirt is in the way and all he manages is a croaked ‘tired’. 

Esther holds him closer. “I know, love. But it’ll do you good, getting some air.”

“We’ll go look at that tree you like so much, if you can manage it that far,” Alfie calls from the hallway. Heavy footsteps approach and soon he pops his head in through the doorway. Raises both eyebrows expectantly. His gaze softens when it takes in the sight. 

“Just a short walk, to get some air. You’ll feel better,” he says and comes to stand before the bed, towering above him in his large black coat. “One step at a time, eh?”

Why is it so fucking hard? it’s never going to be better, it’s too hard, all of it-

“Alright, up you go then. And let’s see if we can put some more clothing on you because pyjamas are entirely inappropriate attire in this weather.” 

When he’s pulled upright, he stumbles on unsteady feet. But Alfie doesn’t let him fall.

It does help, going outside. There’s no snow yet but the air is crisp and a layer of frost has encased the branches and the grass, making the world glimmer in the sunlight. It feels strange and nice, noticing it. And after smoking two cigarettes in quick succession, he can finally breathe. The mud has almost cleared away from his chest, his stomach, and instead there’s just frosty air with a smattering of salt. As usual, Alfie talks enough to drown out the sound of Michael reciting the article over and over again.

The sun is shining. And it’s daylight, many, many hours until nightfall when he has to lie there in the darkness and the voices become so much louder.

Alfie has a pleased smile on his face, as if this whole thing is a personal victory. Tommy likes it when he smiles. The realisation puzzles him. He glances at Alfie again, to make sure he isn’t mistaken. Watches as he scratches his beard absentmindedly, the rings glinting in the sunlight. His one good eye glints in the light too. Like this, he radiates peace and safety and Tommy wishes he could huddle into his coat, wants to be so close that his body melts together with Alfie’s.

When they get as far as the chestnut tree he’s so exhausted he has to rest. The past days inability to stomach anything at all hasn’t made him any stronger.

He promises himself to try harder with dinner.

“There you go, nice and easy, did so well, didn’t ya´? Didn’t faint or even swoon the tiniest bit,” Alfie mutters as he leans against the trunk of the tree. 

He steps back to give him a onceover and Tommy’s hand instinctively shoots out grasp his coat sleeve. The moment his fingers close around the fabric he’s flooded with regret, but Alfie doesn’t seem to mind. That pleased smile is back on his face.

“Look at that, quite nice innit?” he says and nods upwards, where the sun is shining down between the branches. he closes his eyes and focuses on the rays warming his face.

When he opens them again, Alfie is watching him.

Alfie has a way of looking at him that makes something flutter in his chest. The scrutiny can become uncomfortably intense sometimes. Especially on those days when he’s all too aware of what he’s been reduced to, when he looks down at his awful hands and the ugliness seems to cling to his skin- But not when Alfie’s eyes are soft, like this. When he looks at him as if he’s- 

“The same way you’d look at an abandoned fawn you found in the woods, with a broken leg,” Grace muses. “And you’re considering whether to shoot it or not, to end its suffering-“

Alfie’s hand comes up to cup his face. His rings feel cool against his cheek, but his skin is warm.

“You alright? Seems like something crossed your mind just then.”

“I’m fine.” 

He wishes he could be more for Alfie. That he could do something to earn the affection he desperately craves. He’s not enough.

“You’ve never been enough for anyone. Never been able to offer anything-“

He closes his eyes, like a child trying to hide. As if he could disappear. 

“Why do you think they never came to see you?”

“Tommy, hey,” Alfie holds his head a little firmer. “Eyes on me. Go on.”

He obeys, clings harder to his coat and tries to focus on the warmth of his hands.

“Whatever they’re saying, I suggest you try and listen to me instead. Yeah?”

Alfie accepts the tiny nod he manages as the only answer. Rubs his thumb up and down his jaw. Frowns. Tommy tries to count the creases on his forehead in search of distractions. They smooth out a little when Alfie makes up his mind and says, “Think that’ll have to be enough for today. Let’s get you home.”

He wraps an arm around his waist (“Just to keep you steady, eh, Tommy?”) and sets off down the path towards the house. 

The sun still shines. Alfie lights another cigarette for him and then he tells him the intricate details of how swallows build their nests. Tommy leans in, ducks his head until it’s almost resting against Alfie’s shoulder. His coat smells like pipe tobacco and salty air. Alfie squeezes his waist.

Right then he wishes he could freeze the moment and stay in it forever.

…

He still takes refuge in the living room at night, when the nightmares wake him up. The past few days it’s happened too often.

Alfie tells him to wake him up instead, but he can’t. Reaching across the mattress and shaking him feels impossible, asking, demanding too much. He’s promised he won’t get angry but people lie, don’t they? We’re only trying to help, Tommy, we won’t hurt you, we’ll take care of you, you just need to rest, Tommy, rest, sleep, and it’ll get better, there’s no bullet there, all healed, see, look for yourself, nothing there, you just need to rest-

“This is why you need to listen to me.” Grace’s soft voice is clear among all the others. “You can trust me.”

It’s childish and naïve, thinking he’d be able to hide from her, from any of them, simply by leaving the bedroom. They follow, always know where he is. Grace is stood in the corner, by the bookshelves. The crow is behind her, on its perch on the shelf, still now, staring at him with glassy eyes,

still and dead.

“It’s not real,” Alfie reminds him. “Or well, it’s real, innit, but it’s not alive. Alright?”

And Grace is not real, he knows, he knows and still it doesn’t help because in the dark it’s hard to know for sure- and does it matter, when he knows she’s telling the truth? Real or not.

The darkness makes everything worse.

The darkness, knowing everyone else in the world is asleep, the sheer loneliness of it all. Even if Alfie is only seconds away. Esther too. He could be the only one left in the entire world and it wouldn’t make a difference.

“Please come wake me up if you need to, Tommy,” Esther keeps saying. A bit like Alfie, but gentler in her insistences. “It’s fine. I’ll sleep better knowing you feel safe.”

He usually nods, yes, he’ll come wake her up, even if he has no intention to. He wishes he could.

“I’m trying to care for him, but nothing seems to help,” Lizzie’s voice comes from the corridor, through a tiny gap between the door and the frame that casts a thin strip of light onto the dark bedroom floor. “I only seem to make things worse.”

“Not to worry, mrs Shelby, this is why I’m here. To help. Your husband is very sick, and it’s difficult, caring for someone in that position.”

“I can’t get him to eat. At all. Barely get him to drink either.”

“That is concerning, of course, but there are measures we could take-“

“And it seems like he never sleeps. He just lies there, staring at nothing and-”

He can’t wake Esther up either.

He’s already a burden, doesn’t want to make it worse. Knows because of their tired eyes, each time they have to lead him back to bed, the same tired eyes Lizzie had, they

“-don’t understand, don’t know how to help you, Tommy-“

That’s why they were sending him away, to that place the voices spoke about behind the door, where they don’t have to see, don’t have to be bothered, they can safely forget and move on. Build their lives back up, bricks upon bricks, it’ll be easy to fill the hole until it’s as if he were never there they’ll be happy to be rid of it

The pain is fresh and raw, torn up again by the words in the paper, the glimpse into a life he doesn’t have anymore, perhaps never had, just clung to with a white knuckled grip

“For how long can you keep doing this?”

How long? Imagining the rest of his life stretched out in an endless string of days has installed nothing but terror in him for so long.

The pain makes his body seize up and his fingers close around something smooth. He looks down to find the chestnut there in his palm.

And he thinks of Alfie. Of falling asleep curled up in his arms as he reads, walking in the snow, sitting outside when spring comes, the way Alfie talked about. That would be nice.

Maybe he still wants things that feel nice.

The thought sparks a tiny, flickering light that warms the empty cavity in his chest.

“What do you think he gets out of this? Having to care for someone like you, without getting anything in return. You don’t deserve any of this.”

The answer comes instinctively, “I know-“

But he wants it-

“Haven’t you gotten enough of the things you’ve wanted?”

“But-“

“Stop questioning me.” A twinge of cold steel creeps into Grace’s voice.

When the urge to dig his nails into his skin comes over him he squeezes the chestnut harder. Tries to focus on the smooth surface.

“I want to stay.”

Wants to stay, wants to be here with Alfie. It feels so strange to want anything at all, he’s not allowed to. For so long there’s just been this void inside of him. How could he want anything, then?

But he wants to be here with Alfie.

Grace’s eyes glint with ice in the dark.

“He’s going to hurt you. How can you not see that? When he finally realises how much it’s cost him, all of this”

He nods, hopes to appease her, can’t stand that voice. Even if the tiniest part of him wants to protest. Alfie wouldn’t hurt him.

“You know you deserve to be hurt.”

The chestnut lands on the floor with a soft thump. Instead, his hand grips a green vase that glimmers on the mantlepiece. The glass is cool underneath his fingers and it rests heavily in his hand. Shimmers blue in the faint moonlight from the window.

“It’s so easy, Tommy,” Grace’s voice is soft again. “So easy. With me you’ll get to rest.” 

He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, fingers convulsively tight around the vase. Tries to will himself to put it back on the mantle.

“You can’t stay here.”

“I want to.” His voice cracks pitifully and the hand holding the vase is shaking, shaking wonders if his bones will crack before the glass does

“Evening Thomas. Thought we’d gotten an unannounced visit, but it’s just one of your ghosts again. Suppose they might classify as one, still.” 

Alfie is standing in the doorway, seems to fill it entirely with his broad frame and Tommy wants to fling himself into his arms and cling to him but he’s lost control of his own body, gaze flickering back to Grace who is still watching him with cold eyes. Alfie walks up to him without another word, takes the vase away from him and puts it out of reach on the mantle.

He was so angry, that time when he broke the vase, even if it was an accident. Yelled and looked at him with hard eyes full of accusation. Now, Alfie just strokes his cheek. His fingers are rough and warm against his skin and he leans into the touch.

“ ‘s alright, hm? Yeah, you’re alright,” he says. “Look, I brought your blanket. There we go- c’mere” He wraps the blanket tightly around his shoulders, pulls Tommy into his arms, into folds of sleep-warm fabric, solid muscle anf softness that he can bury his face in. He’s been holding his breath for so long it starts coming out in harsh hiccups against Alfie’s chest as he rocks him back and forth. Slowly slowly, until he eventually says, “A’ight, let’s get you back to bed and away from the ghosts, eh?”

When Alfie tries to move him, Tommy finds himself frozen on the spot.

“No? Not ready to go back to the bedroom? Do you want to stay here for a bit?”

He shakes his head but doesn’t know- what does he want? Wants to be close to Alfie. But in the dark bedroom, there’s the expectation of sleep. Sleeping feels impossible, his heart is still thrumming so hard in his chest. Hammers against his ribcage, sending vibrations through his whole body. He looks at the floor, searches for the chestnut he dropped. Alfie’s gaze follows his and he soon finds it, picks it up and presses it into Tommy’s hand

“There you go. Now, you just sit right here-“ He leads him over to the sofa and plops him down onto the soft cushions. “And hold onto that, while I light a fire. Think you can do that?”

The surface is smooth and familiar under his fingers. He nods and pulls his feet off the cold floor.

Alfie lights a fire that chases the shadows into the corners of the room, bathes the room and his face in warm light that breathes life into everything. Then he seats himself next to Tommy on the sofa and pulls him into his arms again. Tucks his head under his chin. 

“There we go. Suppose we’ll just sit here for a while, then. Can’t read anything I’m afraid, seeing as I left my glasses in the bedroom, but we can, yeah, we can just sit here and relax.”

He never realizes just how cold he is until he’s close to Alfie. Alfie is so warm. Warm and strong. Safe. Like this, he doesn’t have to believe the voices. Not any of them. Like this, he feels safe. The fire crackles softly and melts together with Alfie’s breaths into a soothing hum.

“Who is it that you see, hm, Tommy?” Alfie asks once he’s stopped shaking. 

It’s not the first time he asks. They all ask. The answer is always lodged in his chest and too hard to get out. But now it floats dangerously close to the surface. His breaths tremble as he pulls them into his lungs. He worries the fabric of the blanket under his fingers, rubs the pad of his other thumb over the chestnut. It’s warm now from resting in his palm. He buries his face deep in the fabric of Alfie’s nightshirt. Until he can pretend he won’t hear him.

“Grace.” It’s surreal, saying it out loud. Even if he whispers it so quietly it might as well have been the wind. As if it’s not his voice, as if the reply is separate from himself.

“And she speaks to you? When you see her.”

A hum is all he can manage. 

“And what does she say?”

He shakes his head. No no he can’t, he’s not allowed-

“Go on, you’re doing so well.” Alfie mutters into his hair. “Yeah? What does she say?”

“Bad things.”

“Like suggesting you put a gun to your head, or break my glassware to potentially do harm to yourself? Or walk into the bloody ocean.”

Perhaps Alfie can sense that he’s sinking with every word because he holds him tighter.

“See that’s important, innit? Granted I don’t fucking know your wife, but it seems highly unlikely she’d be so fucking adamant that you hurt yourself. So I think we can safely say whoever keeps pestering you isn’t really her. Does that seem like a reasonable theory?” 

He doesn’t have an answer. Grace, the real Grace, has gotten oddly blurred, the warm, rosy memories faded at the edges. It seems so long ago. And he was different then. Maybe a bit more deserving of her love. No, he never deserved it but at least he wasn’t… this.

The good memories hurt too much. He locked them away, tried to forget. And now it seems like he has.

“It’s my fault. My fault that- that she’s dead“

Alfie’s fingers wind into his hair and tugs it backward until he’s forced to meet his gaze.

“Did you hold the fuckin’ gun, eh? Logic like that is useless once you get into a business like ours. How many times do I have to fuckin tell you?”

“I might as well-“

“Don’t argue with me. See I’m a wise, wise old man, not to mention, a quite recently instated God. I’d be deeply hurt and offended if you decided to not treat my advice and wisdom with the utmost respect.”

“There are others,” Tommy says, still having to tear the words from throat to get them out. Alfie hums. Allows him to hide in his shirt again. 

“Suppose it’s hard, having so many people in your head all the time But, I’d say that all things considered, you probably shouldn’t pay too much attention to what they are saying either.”

“Why?”

“Well, to put it simply, if they tell you to hurt yourself, you shouldn’t fucking listen. Or if they tell you- fucking hell, whatever it is that make you wander off in the middle of the night, or stare into the distance with that horrified look on your face.” Alfie pauses his increasingly agitated monologue and huffs out a harsh breath through his nose. He combs his fingers rhythmically through his hair in the way that always makes Tommy feel as if he could melt. Now, it at least soothes his wracked nerves. Alfie sighs. “Whatever they’re saying it’s not worth listening to.”

“They’re right.”

Grace might’ve loved him, even if he didn’t deserve it. Maybe Lizzie did too. For short while, at least. Before he destroyed that too. There’s something wrong with him, something ugly and black and broken that makes it impossible to love him. Even Ada said so, everything he touches-

Alfie’s eyes glint in the light of the fire as he grasps his chin and nudges his head up. He focuses on the clear one, the one that isn’t a reminder of-

“They don’t fucking matter,” he says, voice sharp. “Fuckin’ ghosts and spectres. They’re not real and they don’t matter, you hear me?”

“It’s hard. Knowing what’s real.”

Alfie nods and guides his head back against his chest, his touch gentle again. His head is cradled in his palm, warm breaths in his hair as he whispers, “This, this is real.”

And with the sound of Alfie’s heartbeat and the crackling fire in his ears, Tommy closes his eyes.

…

The next thing he becomes aware of is that he’s floating. At least it feels like that at first. But he’s anchored in a set of two strong arms, head still propped against a familiar chest. Floorboards creak underneath heavy steps. He tries to open his eyes, but they’re too heavy. Shifts the tiniest bit to bury his face in soft fabric.

“Shh, shh, settle down. Settle down, I’ve got you.”

Alfie hushes him and rocks him ever so slightly, pulling him slowly back into sleep as he’s carried through the house.

The voices and the mud can’t reach him here, in Alfie’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and for sticking with me ♥️ and an extra huge thanks to everyone who's commented -you are endlessly appreciated.


	23. Into your arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie finds himself confronted by his own feelings at every turn, and it's proving difficult to ignore them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'tis here! another one! I'm so sorry for not replying to any comments on the previous chapter yet, I'll get to it I promise, and please know they've been hugely appreciated as always ♥️ When I finally scraped up enough brains to finish this chapter I just wanted to post it right this second. Please enjoy

Alfie knows it’s about to be a good day, or at least one of the better ones, when he opens his eyes to the sight of Tommy sitting on the windowsill, cigarette in hand and forehead leaned against the glass, with a sky as blue as his eyes as backdrop. It’s always a sign of a good day -out of bed, but not gone entirely from the room. That he’s done something of his own volition at all, and doesn’t have to be physically dragged from the safety of the blankets.

He stays quiet to watch him, all sharp angles and shadows with those big blue eyes fastened on the light snowfall outside. Long lashes flutter closed as he exhales a slow puff of smoke, brushing over pale skin.

Tommy possesses the kind of beauty that might inspire men to write poems or paint stunning portraits. And not the awful gaudy things that hang in that equally awful, gaudy house he used to call home. No, if Alfie had been a different man, a painter, he’d paint him just like this, clad in nothing but the too large knitted jumper, hair tousled and with a cigarette between his fingers. Yeah, if things had been different, he’d sit sprawled in an armchair and spin poems about his beauty. Tommy might sit curled up by his feet, head resting on his lap, looking up adoringly at him while he runs his fingers through his hair and compares his eyes to the clear blue sea outside the window.

He blames the early hour for these thoughts. It’s only natural to let the mind wander to impossible and outlandish scenarios every once in a while, in fact he might say that’s his favourite past time, and he can’t possibly help that Tommy inspires these thoughts and therefore ends up in the middle of them.

Surely he’s not the first man who’s thought it, either.

He wonders if Tommy has ever noticed the effect he has on other people. Women, sure. But men too. It doesn’t seem likely that he’s gone an entire life looking like that without someone trying to stake their claim. During the war perhaps, when pretty things were a rarer occurrence than waking up with dry fucking feet and a full belly. And Tommy is a very pretty thing indeed -surely there must’ve been men that took notice. Tried their luck in the cold trenches in hopes of getting a taste of those lips or a shy, blue eyed glance. The thought fills him with unwarranted rage for some reason

Right about then he realises he’s being watched by those pale blue eyes.

“Good morning,” he says. Tommy lowers his gaze and shifts it back to the falling snow, answering quietly after a beat of silence, “Morning.”

He always seems the most at peace in the morning, shoulders loose and relaxed and eyes steadier than usual. Relieved to have survived another night perhaps. Those are still difficult. Well, most things are difficult. But the nights are fucking awful. 

“Did you sleep alright?”

Tommy nods and he raises both eyebrows expectantly.

“Yes,” he says then.

“And you stayed in bed?

“_Yes_.” And Tommy looks up at the ceiling. Which is so close to an eyeroll that Alfie has to grin.

“You absolutely sure about that?”

His incessant question is dignified with a third ‘yes’

Alfie watches him. He’s easy to read when it comes to this, these days: Lying. He’s lost his ability to do so convincingly, even if he tries. Not always helpful though, since he’s equally bad at expressing what is actually going on inside that head of his, through other means than wailing or conversing with ghosts.

“There’s a good lad,” he yawns and stretches, wringing the kinks from his back. Tommy watches him but quickly looks away when he notices. Seems strangely bashful. He catches him staring like that from time to time. Tommy’s eyes have a habit of getting caught on things these days, real or not. Perhaps he’s just unnerved about seeing his handiwork on Alfie’s fucking face… While this morning light might be doing wonders for Tommy’s already fair features, his do best in dusk or preferably complete darkness.

Well, he doesn’t mind Tommy shifting his attention, that just means he can go back to watching him undisturbed while he finishes the first cigarette and lights another one.

After lounging around for a suitable time, Alfie climbs out of bed and gets dressed, choosing one of his velvet waistcoats after some consideration, a decision not unrelated to how much Tommy seems to like it. Likes anything that’s soft and warm that he can bury his fingers in when the ghosts come too close. And he notices Tommy eying him when he walks up to the window and bites back a grin. He’s got his moments, doesn’t he?

Tommy just as quickly looks back out the window, at two little birds on a nearby branch. Round with red bellies and tiny peppercorn eyes. If it’d been more important he would’ve remembered the name.

“Look at those cute fuckers. Those are birds I can get behind. Excellent proportions and all around shape,” Alfie says and leans closer to look out the window. Tommy nods and fidgets with the long sleeves on his jumper. One of the birds jumps closer to its companion, fluffing its feathers up. The corner of Tommy’s mouth twitches, and Alfie’s heart positively leaps in his chest.

Could that be the beginning of a smile?

Yeah, today might be a good day.

It is. Tommy eats all of his small breakfast in less than half an hour and without looking like he’s chewing on glass, which is a miracle if anything. And then they go for a walk in the snow. Tommy holds onto Alfie’s coat sleeve, burrowing deep into the multiple scarves Esther has equipped him with and looks at the snow covered landscape with as much fascination as last time.

“So, any particular place you’d like tovisit today eh, Tommy?”

Alfie gives Tommy ample time to think of an answer and get his words in order, figure out if today is one of those days when he does want anything at all, which isn’t a given.

But then a reply comes from within the many scarves: “The bench. And look at the water.”

“Like to look at the view, eh? Know you’d learn to appreciate it,” Alfie says while steering Tommy in the right direction. “See, one of the perks of living by the sea, aside from the entertainment of shooting seagulls from the comfort of your own sofa, and the excellent air, is of course the sea itself. With its ever-changing appearance there’s never a dull moment, you see…”

Tommy appears content, listening to his wise musings until they reach the very spot that inspired them and Alfie brushes the snow away from the bench. “Like the true gentleman I am, eh, Tommy?” and gestures for him to sit.

Tommy disappears further into the scarves when he sinks down onto the faded green surface and within a minute, before Alfie is even halfway into a story about that one time he almost ran over a boar, he’s shivering. A moment of half-hearted consideration later, Alfie gives in.

“Come here, fragile little creature,” he mutters and tucks him against his side with a. firm tug of his arm. Tommy looks a bit bewildered at first but quickly huddles into the offered warmth. It’s probably cause for concern, how natural it’s become. But it’s…nice. Just fuckin’ _nice_, and god damnit he should be able to have this. Hasn’t he earned the right to some nice things in his old age?

Probably not.

He decides not to linger on that.

Tommy looks out at the water as he goes back to the dramatic retelling of his somewhat enhanced run in with the boar. 

Eventually the story runs out of twists and turns and silence settles between them. It turns into a companionable one, Tommy looking out at the sea while thumbing at the thick lapel of his coat, and Alfie in turn watching him.

He’s got a few more freckles now, dusting the pale skin. And the cold has made his cheeks rosy. The urge to run his thumb across that blush proves impossible to quell and Alfie cups his jaw. His lips part ever so slightly as his eyes bat up towards him, icy blue beneath the fan of long lashes. It’s some kind of self imposed torture, this. Keeping him so close, being unable to, to, yeah, fucking _what _exactly?

Close that gap between them. Feel if Tommy’s lips are as soft as they look.

Would Tommy make any sounds? Soft whimpers against Alfie’s mouth, a quiet sigh as he finally allows himself to fall into his arms, where he belongs…

Tommy’s face is only inches away, suddenly, he’s let himself be pulled close. Or perhaps he’s leaned in.. His gaze is still locked onto Alfie’s. So clear, right then. Bright. Alfie strokes his cheek with the rough pad of his thumb and those long lashes flutter closed. The soft touch makes him melt into the palm of Alfie’s hand. Even his breaths have slowed, coming out in small puffs of misty air.

And right then, he knows, with utter certainty that if only things were different, he would’ve kissed him.

If only this wasn’t the defenseless little bird looking up at him from its cardboard box nest, wide eyed and trusting and fragile enough to break under his touch.

And Alfie’s a bad man, right, but apparently he’s grown soft in old age. Used to be able to take what he wanted. And he fucking _wants_ Tommy. Wants to devour him, break him open and make all the bad things seep out of the cracks and then put him back together. It’s a dark, feral urge bubbling up from deep within.

Tommy might let him, is the frightening thing. Chases every soft touch, leans into any offered embrace with the desperation of an affection starved pet, kept alone in a stall, away from loving touches and gentle hands. A wild horse you’ve given up on when the whip won’t take and left alone until you’ve figured out what to do with it.

Alfie could break his neck, just like this, hand enclosing the fragile thing, squeeze until he felt the telltale sound of bones popping and finally cracking, and Tommy sags in his grip like a ragdoll.

Tommy might let him do that too. As willingly as let Alfie kiss him.

Alfie does neither.

Instead, he slides the hand to the back of his head and simply cradles it against his chest. Mutters something about wanting to keep him warm, a half truth that Tommy would never question. Tommy lets out a pleased little sound and huddles into his coat.

He hopes he can’t feel how hard his heart is beating.

…

Another sign of the good nature of this day is the fact that Tommy falls asleep on the sofa after the walk. On the good days he tends to do that, doze off whenever he’s been sitting for too long. He still sleeps poorly at night, but it seems easier, falling asleep during the day. And things, everyday activities, take a lot out of him. Walking, eating, putting together full sentences or simply remaining somewhat attached to the real world rather than spacing out into his own hazy one. Yeah. Everything. So he naps quite a bit on those good days, nodding off when Alfie is reading to him. And it feels… good. Right. Like he’s healing. Like he needs the sleep, for his battered mind to slowly repair itself, little by little. At least that’s what Alfie likes to imagine when he leaves him sleeping on the sofa under his trusty blanket with the hot water bottle held against his chest to ward off the cold. And the lack of a warm body next to his, or a waistcoat or shirtsleeve to bury his fingers in. He’s learned a trick or two.

Sometimes he’ll sit and just watch Tommy until he wakes up again. Today, he can’t bring himself to do so. It feels dangerous, like balancing on the edge of a cliff.

In the kitchen, Esther is slicing apples with quick and sharp chops, adding them to an already impressive pile.

“Afternoon, sir,” she says with a quick look over her shoulder. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Tom’s asleep. Poor thing’s absolutely knackered. As always.”

“It’s good that he sleeps.” Esther nods and adds the pieces to a bowl. “I’m making a pie. For tea.”

Alfie hums.

“See, I’m trying to work with what he already eats and see if that helps to expand what he can stomach. It’d help if he could eat something a bit more… substantial.” Esther frowns down at the apples. “I don’t think he’s losing any more weight but he certainly isn’t gaining any.”

As always, this topic makes the clouds settle over them both. At least Tommy’s list of somewhat acceptable foods can be considered an actual list now, as opposed to just three items (soup, apples, honey) and granted several of those items are just different _kinds _of soups, and fruits. But it’s something. Yesterday Esther even managed to coax him into nibbling on a cracker. Alfie tries to remind himself of that first time, when just a tiny piece of bread was too much. At least it’s been a long time since he outright gagged on his food, even if it’s rarely consumed with any enthusiasm. And it has yet to yield any results in noticeable weight gain. Still all bones and sharp angles, Tommy. Cold all the time. Tiny.

Before they can further discuss the issue of their fragile little houseguest, said guest enters the kitchen on quiet feet, sans blanket but with the hot water bottle still clutched against his chest.

“Well hello there,” Alfie greets him a bit too loudly. “Finished napping, have you?”

Yawning, Tommy comes to stand by his side. An inch or so away, close enough for him to feel the heat of his body. Alfie wraps an arm around his bony shoulders.

Esther smiles and begins filling the kettle with water. 

“Did you sleep well, Thomas?” 

Tommy nods, sleepy eyed and rosy cheeked. Looks warily at the pie as Esther puts it into the oven.

“Pie,” Alfie says lamely and nods towards the oven. Tommy fingers at the buttons of his waistcoat, the tips of his fingers just barely visible beneath the long sleeves. He should tell him to stop. “Esther here has been kind enough to make one for tea.” A distinct wrinkle furrows Tommy’s brow. “Yeah, yeah, I know, you usually have half a canned pear at this hour. If you don’t like it you can have that instead. But this is mostly just apples. You should at least try it.”

Tommy seems far from convinced.

Turns out Tommy likes the pie. Or as close to liking food as it gets with him these days. Perhaps any day, previous to these strange ones, too. Alfie can’t really picture Tommy liking any kind of food. It seems entirely too human. Then again Tommy is, in fact, only human. As much as he likes to pretend otherwise. Human. Fragile. Breakable.

He eats it, at least, without making any faces. But of course he can’t do it in a remotely fucking normal way; he first separates the apples from the crust and eats those, one piece at a time, and only after many long minutes does he finally try a tiny crumb of the crust, deems it acceptable and begins eating the rest.

It’s still a fucking chore, watching him eat. Like clockwork, halfway through the meal, Alfie feels the urge to demonstratively shove his chair away from the table and walk right out of there, muttering curses under his breath. But a look from Esther keeps him in his chair, focused on his tea.

“So, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Esther says when Tommy’s plate is as empty as it’ll get. 

Tommy shakes his head. And adds after a beat of silence, “You don’t have to-“

They both wait patiently. Well, Esther is patient. Alfie has to fill his mouth with tea to keep himself from snapping.

“Go through all this trouble,” he finally mumbles to the table top, rearranging the crumbs with the spoon into small piles on the plate.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Esther says. “It might be some effort involved. But it’s well worth it.”

Tommy crushes a crumb into two and puts down the spoon with a small clink. Tugs the sleeves down over his hands and balls the fabric up in his closed fists.

Esther reaches out, brushes a stray hair away from his eyes and adds softly, “You deserve to be taken care of.” 

Crimson patches have begun licking up Tommy’s neck. For once, Alfie doesn’t feel inclined to point it out and barely resists the urge to avert his gaze because f_uck _it looks as if he wants to crawl out of his own skin, the way he shrinks into the large knitted jumper. Shakes his head again, tiny, rigid movements.

Alfie sits frozen when Tommy starts to scratch at his scar, but Esther moves the hand away from his head with practiced ease and nudges the teacup into his grip instead.

“Finish your tea now, love,” she says calmly and turns that sure gaze to him. The one that holds the fragile situation together, as always, Esther. “Would you like a refill, Sir?”

Alfie manages a choked hum at the back of his throat. Feels like he should add something to the conversation but finds himself in the unusual predicament of lacking the words as Esther fills the already half-full cup with more tea.

Tommy quietly drinks his tea and doesn’t make any further attempts to claw at his head.

…

As always, the late hours of the afternoon find them in the living room in front of the fireplace, Alfie with his pipe in hand and Tommy with a cigarette. They’re sat together on the sofa, like most days recently. It’s a new development and Alfie isn’t sure precisely when it became the new normal. Like most things, it grew out of a highly temporary solution, a way to calm Tommy. Just like his sleeping in Tommy’s bed and eventually Tommy sleeping in his. Which is still a decision he avoids thinking about if he can help it. But it’s no use denying it, having Tommy within an arm’s reach helps. Makes it easier to fend off the ghosts when they come too close.

“How come you don’t eat?” he asks once Tommy is halfway into his cigarette. He waves a hand, dispersing the smoke clouding the air. “I mean of course I know, right? I mean I know about the, let’s say, less than excellent way in which it was handled. But before. I mean it must’ve come to that for a reason, right?”

“I don’t know,” Tommy says, a palpable tension setting into his shoulders.

“See, food, just as sleep and rest, is an utmost necessity to recover from pretty much anything,” he tells him. As if Tommy avoids food simply because he doesn’t know the benefits. “Helped me significantly to get my strength back. The sea air probably helped too. And the liberating lack of responsibilty for running a business and keeping a bunch of fucking halfwits in line. All I’ve been doing really. Eating. Sleeping. Watching ships.”

Tommy blinks slowly at him. “I can tell.” 

“What is this I hear?” Alfie exclaims, savoring the thrill of something, anything even remarkably snarky coming out of his mouth. Tommy raises both eyebrows and shrugs a little, tapping ash from the cigarette. “Are you making smug remarks about my statuesque person? Because let me tell you, mate, I will not stand for that kind of behavior in my own house. I’ll have you know that these extra pounds have done me nothing but good, ” he finishes and pats his stomach.

Tommy stubs out the cigarette. “I don’t mind,” he says quietly to his hands, a slight flush creeping up his cheeks. A somewhat bizarre addition to the conversation. Alfie revels in it but snorts in mock offence.

“Well, that’s fucking stellar, innit? Truly your opinion on the matter is highly, highly valued. Since you, yourself, could easily be knocked over by a stiff fucking wind. And it’s not exactly a picture of health, is it? Being skinny as a rake.” He pokes him in the overly pronounced ribs and a flash of hurt passes in Tommy’s eyes as he flinches.

Right. That might’ve been the line.

Despite public opinion, Alfie does indeed know when he’s gone too far. It’s just that he usually doesn’t care. And he’s never been too good with apologies. He resorts to quite roughly pulling Tommy into an embrace, ignoring the way he goes completely stiff in his arms. But he just holds him there until his head comes to rest on his chest underneath the weight of his hand as he points out, “All this extra padding is good for something, innit?”

Gradually, Tommy relaxes into the embrace, cheek pressed against the velvet of the waistcoat. His hair is soft against Alfie’s chin. Smells faintly of soap.

“Do you feel as if you don’t deserve to eat?” he asks in that quiet sort of tone he knows Tommy fares best with. “Eh, Tommy? Is this yet another one of those ludicrous punishments you’re set on subjecting yourself to?” 

“It’s not that.” Tommy whispers. 

“Because you do. You deserve to eat. Just like you deserve rest and sleep and… things that make you feel good.” He begins running his fingers through familiar locks of dark hair and elicits a quiet sigh from Tommy. “I mean the concept of deserving things or not is a different fucking discussion entirely, which is unimportant at his very moment. We should keep it simple. Yeah? You deserve food just as much as anyone else. Probably don’t need me telling you that, but if you do, this is me, telling you.”

Tommy shrugs and takes refuge in his shirt, hiding his face from prying eyes. Alfie doesn’t pester him. There’s been enough talking, he supposes.

…

When Esther comes in an hour or so later, Tommy is asleep again, hand still loosely clutching the front of Alfie’s waistcoat and head resting on his chest. Peaceful, without any of the frowning or twitching. Esther puts another log onto the fire and potters around the room for a bit, wiping down the table, carefully setting the empty teacups onto a tray.

Despite Alfie’s best efforts, he’s overcome by an urge to shove Tommy away, hide the intimacy of the situation. But one glance down at the honestly fucking angelic sight that is Tommy sleeping in his arms removes that urge entirely.

Esther stops and just looks at them, a faint smile on her lips.

“He’s getting better,” she whispers and he huffs, responding just as quietly, “Don’t fuckin say that.”

“He is. It might be… slow. But he is.”

“Been a good few days, is all.”

Esther gives him one of those very knowing and equally annoying smiles, picks up the tray, and leaves the room.

Even if Alfie tries to tell himself differently, her words linger. He looks down at Tommy. Allows himself to imagine, hope, if only for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew there we go, I'm having a lie down. I hope you enjoyed this (In part) tooth rotting fluff. My soul needed it, life is rough right now. Please share your thoughts and feelings, it always makes my day ♥️


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